


Stag and Wolf, Wyvern and Rabbit

by deadlifts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drama, Emotional Constipation, Eventual Romance, Golden Deer spoilers, M/M, Slow Burn, eventually will contain descriptions of battles and injury - will add notes on relevant chapters, not-friends to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-01-30 11:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 98,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21427219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlifts/pseuds/deadlifts
Summary: Claude says it just as Felix is in the middle of his third strike. Felix immediately adjusts his stance, lifting his arm high enough to miss the training dummy so he can spin around and slice the air next to Claude instead. Claude, to his credit, doesn’t so much as flinch, not even as the blade stops a mere feather's width from his neck.---In which Claude attempts to recruit Felix to his class, and Felix declines, starting something akin to a battle.A slowburn fic that spans both the Academy year and the war.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 591
Kudos: 733





	1. Rejection

**Author's Note:**

> My first route was Golden Deer. I recruited Sylvain immediately, and then worked on Felix so I could have a strong sword-user in the group. 
> 
> Thus, this idea, which grew, even as I played the other houses, into the monster that is this fic.

Less the shadow  
than you a stag, sudden, through it.   
\- Carl Phillips, "Hymn"

Claude doesn’t spend a lot of time at the training grounds. Certainly not while Felix is there, which is nearly every day, usually for hours. As far as Felix has heard, Claude spends most of his free time, when he’s not working an angle of some kind, at the library. 

During the mock battle, Felix could tell that Claude is more practiced and disciplined in combat than his easygoing demeanor would lead one to believe. Which means that the Golden Deer house leader must train somewhere, regularly. 

As Claude stands before him now, seemingly out of place among the focused grunts that accompany swinging weapons and the thuds of contact with training dummies, Felix thinks that Claude probably trains outside. It would suit his style. 

It’s a frivolous thought, so Felix abandons it as soon as it surfaces in his mind. 

“What?” he asks. 

“I was wondering...” Claude begins, trailing off playfully, though his eyes are serious and evaluating. Claude does a very good job of closing himself off, Felix knows, and most of the idiots in the school fail to pick up on his tells. But Felix is not like them — he has spent enough time staring into Dimitri’s dichotomy to see right through Claude’s. 

Not that it matters. It doesn’t concern him. 

“Wondering _what?_” he asks, impatience already gnawing at him. “I have no time for your games.” 

“Games?” Claude repeats, eyes widening in mock shock. “I’m offended. I don’t play games.” 

“Schemes,” Felix corrects, though he laces the tone with every ounce of the annoyance that he feels. “However you label them, you get the same result. I’m going back to training.” 

Claude seems amused, but Felix thinks that Claude wears amusement the same way that Felix wears derision — rooted in truth, but more often a shield than he would like to admit. 

“You got me,” Claude relents, putting up his hands in a kind of surrender. “It’s a scheme...but a small one.” He pauses, as though to give Felix a chance to protest again, but when Felix doesn’t say anything, Claude lays his cards on the table. “Join my class.” 

Felix hadn’t entered this conversation with expectations, but even so, he is surprised by the statement — not a request, more like a command. He doesn’t show his surprise, however. He merely turns back to his training dummy with a curt and pointed, “No.” 

“Ah, how boring,” Claude replies, though he doesn’t leave. Felix adjusts his sword and strikes, once, twice, and — 

“I should have known you were too loyal to His Highness.” 

Claude says it just as Felix is in the middle of his third strike. Felix immediately adjusts his stance, lifting his arm high enough to miss the training dummy so he can spin around and slice the air next to Claude instead. Claude, to his credit, doesn’t so much as flinch, not even as the blade stops a mere feather's width from his neck. 

“I have no blind loyalty for the boar prince,” Felix replies. 

“Then join my class,” Claude replies simply, as though Felix isn’t, at this very moment, holding a weapon to his throat. 

"I have no blind loyalty for deer, either.” Felix lowers his blade. “But you aren’t just a deer, are you?” 

There it is: that smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach Claude’s eyes. The armor. On the surface, Claude is unfazed, but Felix can tell his words have nicked Claude more efficiently than his blade. 

“That’s what they tell me,” is Claude’s easy reply. 

Felix doesn’t know who “they” are, nor does he care. He turns back to strike at the dummy again. 

Claude is long gone by the time he finishes his session. 

* * *

Felix rarely sees Claude after that, not even in the dormitory, both of them keeping late hours in their respective corners of the monastery. Felix trains and Claude does...whatever it is that Claude does. Felix doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. 

One night, returning to his room later than usual, shoulder aching from a miscalculated swing, he finds Claude in the dormitory stairwell. Claude is carrying a book, likely on his way to the library. 

“I’m not in the mood.” Felix’s temper is worse than usual because he is in pain, and he hates being unfit to swing a sword. A simple healing spell or vulnerary would fix him up easily, but he doesn’t have access to those at the moment, and it's too late to bother Manuela with a non-emergency. He doesn’t want Claude to see his pain anymore than he wants to exhibit the weakness, so he is careful to keep his body relaxed. 

Claude watches as Felix climbs the stairs past him. “I have a vulnerary in my room,” he calls out, just before Felix can leave the stairwell. 

Against his better judgment, Felix pauses, silently cursing Claude for being so perceptive and not allowing Felix to lick his wounds in peace. “I’m fine.” 

"Oh yeah? Then catch!” 

Claude hurls the book right at Felix’s face, but Felix is always on his guard around Claude, and trusts him about as far as he could throw the book back with his currently injured shoulder. Instead of falling for the surprise, he merely steps out of the way. The book hits the wall with a thump and slides down a few stairs before coming to a stop. 

“Poor book,” Claude murmurs. He scoops it up and follows Felix onto the dormitory floor. 

Felix attempts to go right to his room, but Claude touches him, briefly, on his arm. Felix immediately pulls away from the contact, causing a protesting jolt of pain to radiate throughout his shoulder. 

“Wait here.” 

Claude disappears into his room, the door shutting behind him. Felix doesn’t listen. He heads into own his room and locks the door. 

He expects Claude to continue to pester him, but after several minutes pass, he assumes he gave up and went to the library as planned. Felix changes into his night clothes, gingerly, and attempts to sleep. 

The sharp ache in his shoulder keeps him awake. It occurs to him that he might have injured it worse than he thought with that final swing, because every slight movement radiates pain from his shoulder downward. He should have taken the vulnerary, after all, or risked interrupting whatever Sylvain is doing at this time at night — definitely not sleeping — to see if he has one on hand. 

Just as he is forcing his mind to quiet, attempting to lie perfectly still, there is a soft knock on his door. 

Felix doesn’t move. He listens. 

Another knock. 

Since he is wide awake as it is, he stands and opens the door, expecting to see Sylvain on the other side, fresh from one of his poor choices. It wouldn’t be the first time Sylvain has bothered him at a stupidly late time of night. But it’s Claude, vulnerary in hand. 

“Ready to admit you need this?” 

Claude is not a deer at heart. He is something else, something sneaky and dangerous, who knows more about others than he projects. The fact that he’s here, just as Felix was reaching the height of his regret for rejecting his earlier offer, is unsettling. It makes Felix want to strike back again, to slam the door in the face, to tell him to fuck off. 

But the most enraging aspect of this scenario is that Claude is right. He needs the vulnerary if he wants to sleep so he can train again in the morning. 

“How do I know it isn’t poisoned?” 

“Why do you expect the worst from me?” Claude looks exaggeratedly wounded, but he brings the vial to his own lips and takes a small sip. Then he holds it out to Felix. 

Is Claude the type of person to willingly drink his own poison? To sacrifice his own health for the long con of some unimportant scheme? 

Absolutely, Felix decides. 

“I know what you are,” Felix replies, but he takes the vial, because who is he kidding? He’ll take relief even if it comes with unknown side effects. He downs it. 

“What’s that?” Claude asks, his tone too cheerful to be matched with Felix's. 

Felix holds out the empty vial, assuming Claude will want it back, given the rumors he has heard about his questionable side hobbies. Claude takes it. 

“There’s wyvern in you.” He doesn’t miss the ghost of surprise that flits across Claude’s face. 

He doesn’t explain his logic: that the wyverns in old lore protect piles of gold the same way Claude protects his secrets. He thinks, judging by the way Claude shifts his expression back into a guarded smile, he has touched upon something important — that such explanations would be unnecessary. 

“But in moments like this, I can see the deer in you, too. The prey.” 

It’s unnecessarily mean considering how Claude came to his rescue even after Felix snubbed him, but Felix finds it hard to believe that he is motivated by pure goodwill. There's something more to this — a bigger picture that Felix can't see — and that alone makes him irritable. He hates the way Claude and his ulterior motives have taken to hovering around him, when Felix is usually so good at getting everyone to leave him alone. 

“I know you think I should take offense to that," Claude replies in stride. "But I don't. I happen to think deer is a good look for me." 

Felix is already done with this conversation. Though the ache in his shoulder is fading, he's too tired for this conversation. He doesn’t bother trying to usher Claude out of his room. He merely walks over to his bed and lies down, now that he can do so comfortably. 

“You’re no lion,” Claude tells him. 

It’s a statement that is meant to bait Felix back into the conversation, but Felix turns over and closes his eyes. 

He hears Claude’s footsteps as he finally walks outside the room, but they pause just before he closes the door. “Oh, by the way,” Claude says softly. “I asked Teach if she’d do me a favor and recruit Sylvain to our class.” 

Felix opens his eyes, glaring at the wall. 

“Apparently, he agreed right away.” Claude chuckles. “Thought you should know.” 

Then he closes the door. 

Felix is left seething. Of course that idiot didn’t say no, not if the question was posed by a woman, one that he rambled on about for literal hours after she first showed up at the monastery. 

Felix has the vague sense that he is under siege, that Claude was waging a kind of battle. A challenge. 

In the midst of his annoyance and anger, he can’t help it: taking root within his mind is a small seed of interest. 

* * *

Felix isn’t one for scheming. He is singularly focused on his training and doesn’t waste effort on grand plans or peripheral interests. He also lacks the charm and charisma to manipulate anyone, even someone as easy as Sylvain, and has no interest in improving those skills. 

All he can be is blunt and clear in his goals. 

“I'm sorry, what?” Hilda asks, looking at Felix as though he has gone a little mad. Around them, the market bustles with activity. 

“You heard me. Join our class.” Simple, to the point. 

“I think you’ve been spending too much time at the training grounds.” Hilda laughs. It isn’t a rude laugh, but Felix doesn't like it. “Why would I join your class?” 

“Isn’t it all the same to you?” Felix is impatient. Hilda has a reputation for avoiding work at any opportunity. Surely she feels no loyalty to her house or its leader — otherwise she would spend more effort on her responsibilities than she does shirking them. 

“I have friends in my class. My brother was in Golden Deer. I’m not going to switch just because you tell me to.” She gives him a look that seems pitying. “Is this about Sylvain? I know Claude acts —” 

But she stops talking when she sees the professor come into view, and ducks behind Felix. “Hide me!” she whispers. 

Felix folds his arms, annoyed. In any other circumstance, he would walk away, leaving Hilda to her professor. But that wouldn’t help this negotiation. 

He stands that way for several moments, growing more irritable, until the professor finally finishes a conversation with the Gatekeeper. Once she leaves, Hilda steps back in front of Felix with a grin. “You saved me. I owe you one.” 

“Then —” 

Hilda interrupts. “Sorry, I still won’t join your class! I may not look like I care much about my responsibilities, and for the most part that’s true, but I can’t even begin to think about telling my brother I switched classes...” 

Felix gives up and turns to go. This conversation has gone on long enough. 

“But...” Hilda lets the word hang between them. Felix turns to look at her again. 

“I might be able to convince someone else to join your class,” she finishes, smiling. 

“Who?” It shouldn’t matter, but Felix feels a small sense of duty to choose someone worthwhile. Try as he might to squash such feelings, he can’t help but feel in a buried part of himself that he doesn’t want to set Dimitri up for failure. 

“Hmm...” She tilts her head, thinking. “You know, Leonie might be a good fit. I bet she would love to show up the Blue Lions if she got the chance. Oh, and she’s a tough girl, so she can handle whatever craziness you have in that class.” 

Hilda doesn’t seem to mean anything with that last line, but Felix can’t help but wonder if she may be more perceptive than she seems. 

“Fine,” he agrees. 

“In exchange,” she continues, drawing out her words, “you have to do my weeding chores for the whole year.” 

“The whole year?” Felix repeats, astonished at her gall. “No." 

“Um, you do realize that taking away a student affects the Golden Deer for a whole year, right? It’s only fair.” 

“What happened to owing me a favor?” he bites back, annoyed all over again. 

“That’s a small favor. Like if you need a cute accessory for a girl you like.” How ridiculous. “Or you decide to skip class to train and I cover for you.” He doesn’t need to skip class to train. He knows how to manage his time. “You know,” she adds, “if you join our class, I bet there would be lots of ways I could pay you back.” 

He can’t believe it. Hilda is, beyond all expectation, somehow cut from the same cloth as Claude. It’s exhausting. 

“I don't need any small favors." He almost decides the trade isn't worth it, but then he remembers Claude gloating about Sylvain. "I’ll do the weeding.” 

“Great! I’ll get to work on Leonie right away.” 

Less than a week later, Leonie joins their class. She and Ingrid seem to get along well, and Ashe takes an immediate shine to her. 

* * *

Claude is only a _little_ surprised when Leonie switches classes. He anticipated that Felix would respond to his move with one of his own, but he had not expected him to be successful. After all, Felix is terrible with people. He obviously tries his best to care as a little as possible about them as a whole. 

The fact that he convinced Leonie is what really catches Claude off guard. He had figured that Raphael was the easiest choice. Leonie is more complicated, with her connection to Jeralt and their professor. The more he thinks about it, the more he is convinced that Felix could not have been the main force behind this event. He can’t imagine any of the Golden Deer willingly sabotaging him, despite their varying motivations, unless there was something really good to gain from it. Like if Hilda — 

It hits him, and he can’t believe it took him this long to realize. Hilda, of course. And as soon as he settles on that conclusion, he knows exactly what Hilda would want in exchange for such a big favor. 

He goes to the gardens, and finds, as he predicted, Felix, tearing weeds out of the ground. Claude keeps his distance for a while, watching Felix grab a large weed and attempt to yank it free. He’s strong and very good with a sword, but he clearly isn’t made for this task. Though Claude once, accidentally of course, overheard a snippet of conversation in which Felix denounced noble duty, it’s apparent from his demeanor that he is still very much a noble. Every movement attempts to be refined, but betrays that Felix has spent little time on menial tasks. 

Further proof of his noble roots, his skin even rejects the task of weeding. Claude watches him stop to scratch the space between his glove and sleeve several times. It's obvious one of the plants does not agree with him. Claude makes a mental note of the potential culprits, then files that information away. 

Just in case. 

“That’s funny,” he says to announce his presence. “I thought Hilda was on weeding duty today.” 

“Obviously, she isn’t.” Felix finally pulls the troublesome weed out and tosses it into his growing pile. Then he scratches his wrist. 

“Obviously.” 

Felix continues to work. Claude watches him for a while. 

“Why are you still standing there?" Felix eventually asks, tone imbued with annoyance, as it usually is. He squints up at Claude. "If you're going to hover, you might as well grab some gloves and help." 

“No thanks,” Claude replies, as Felix pauses to scratch again. “I'm busy right now. I can’t seem to find my retainer, if you can believe it.” 

“Is Hilda really your retainer?” Felix is getting frustrated with the rash on his wrist now, scratching with more urgency. 

“Who knows?” is Claude’s vague reply. 

Felix doesn't respond, his wrist now taking up his full attention. Claude watches with subdued interest as he rips off his gloves and scratches with his nails, until he breaks the skin. 

“Felix,” Claudes begins, allowing his tone to shift into something serious. “Are you —" 

Felix isn’t paying him any attention. He continues to scratch and then reaches around for a blade that isn’t currently on his hip. “Fuck,” he hisses. 

“Don’t tell me you’re looking to cut off your arm." It's a half-joke, an attempt to lighten the situation before Felix transitions into a full panic. Claude doesn't have a heart of stone — he doesn't enjoy watching others suffer, even when he is the one to make them suffer in the name of his goals — but he can't help but find this fracture in Felix's control fascinating, from a scientific point of view. It adds a layer to the complexity that is Felix and reminds Claude why he picked him as the target for this scheme in the first place. There's so much beneath the surface; Claude wants to see more. "There are easier ways to —” 

“Shut up,” Felix snaps, barreling past him, leaving Claude in the garden alone. 

Claude has a lot of patience, so he waits, taking the opportunity to look through the weeds in Felix's abandoned pile. 

Felix doesn’t return. In fact, it’s Hilda who eventually shows back up, looking utterly defeated. “I think I may have been tricked,” she tells Claude as she puts on her gloves. “The worst part is, I don’t think he meant to trick me.” 

“One day won’t kill you,” Claude points out. 

“I wish it was just for one day! Felix is banned from working in the gardens, _forever_.” She sighs dramatically. 

“Banned? That’s extreme.” Though not entirely, considering how Felix went from his version of a normal conversation to bolting in a very short period of time. 

“Apparently,” she explains, eager to share the gossip, “there’s something in this garden that messed him up bad. He had to go to Manuela.” 

That’s...a disappointment, Claude thinks, mentally crossing this new piece of information about Felix off of his list of potential fuel for schemes. He’s all for mildly harmful fun, not confined-to-the-infirmary levels of consequence. 

Easy come, easy go. 

* * *

Felix had forgotten that there is one plant in the whole of Fódlan that despises his very existence. He remembers now, of course, standing in front of Manuela, the rash having spread quickly thanks to Felix’s mishandling of the weeds. Even his face itches, and it takes all of his willpower not to scrape at his eyes and cheeks. 

He doesn't scratch his face, and he doesn't think of the last time this happened, years ago — how Sylvain ran ahead to get help and Glenn carried him home, promising to make it better. 

He must look awful, because as soon as Manuela gets an explanation from him, she takes him off of weeding duty, indefinitely. 

It’s pathetic, Felix thinks after she has done her best to reduce the reaction with magic and forced him to drink some kind of herbal tea, confining him to an infirmary bed until she approves him to leave. A small plant, able to do so much damage. What if he encounters the plant on a mission? What if an enemy finds out and uses that information against him? What if — 

Claude. Claude knows. 

For all intents and purposes, Claude is an enemy. The realization settles upon him uncomfortably. 

“I hope you know I’d never resort to something so dirty,” Claude calls as he enters the infirmary, as though he can read Felix’s mind, “as using a weakness like that against you. I do have some honor.” 

“I’m not convinced,” Felix grumbles. “What do you want?” 

Claude sits on the bed beside him, looking proud of himself, as he usually does. 

“What do _you_ want? And you can’t say for me to leave, that’s off limits.” 

Felix doesn’t answer. 

“You’re no fun.” Claude concedes. “Fine, I’ll rephrase. I have something you want. Or should want, at least.” 

“What?” Felix asks, trying to make it very clear through his tone that he is completely uninterested in anything Claude could have to say right now. 

“I know the name of the plant that did this to you.” 

Felix directs his attention to the ceiling. 

“I am willing to tell you,” Claude offers. “For the low price of joining my class.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Felix replies. He feels a little groggy, and thinks it might have to do with the strange tea Manuela had him drink a short while ago. “I’m off weeding duty.” 

“Sure it matters,” Claude replies. “Don’t you want to know so you can avoid it in the future? When you’re on a mission, or visiting a place that might have it everywhere?” 

“I don’t want to know.” Felix means for it to sound frustrated and final, but he ends up yawning at the end. 

Claude laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s amused. “You really don't want to join my class, huh?” 

“Why do you keep asking?” Felix counters. 

A pause. Felix tries to keep himself alert. 

“No one in our class is good with a sword,” Claude eventually answers. 

“There are other students who know how to wield a sword,” Felix replies, trying not to yawn again. He can feel his mind fogging over, his usual sharpness dulling. 

“True,” Claude agrees “but I’m only interested in the best.” 

“Flattery doesn’t work on me,” Felix murmurs. 

“I didn’t think it would.” 

“Then...” Felix trails off, losing the thought, mind drifting. 

“Hey! Don’t fall asleep yet. We’re still talking.” He feels a hand on his shoulder and he should brush it away, but he can’t bring himself to do it. 

The hand shakes him, albeit gently. Felix opens his eyes. “What?” he asks, the word slurring. 

“I get the feeling you aren’t going to remember much of this conversation,” Claude tells him, and maybe it’s because Felix is drifting again, but he sounds excited by the prospect. That should make Felix wary, but he can't bring himself to feel anything except the pull toward sleep. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and he vaguely knows that’s a strange thing for him to say, especially to someone who has been bugging him relentlessly. 

Claude releases him. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

“Mm, okay,” Felix’s mind lulls again. 

A moment of drifting, and then Felix hears Claude’s voice, lower now. “— invasive weed once native to Almyra. It figures you’d reject an Almyran plant.” 

“It does?” Felix slurs, thinking that there’s something important in that statement, but failing to grasp it. 

If Claude responds, Felix doesn’t hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, Claude recruits someone unexpected and Felix gets angry.


	2. Retaliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude recruits someone unexpected and Felix gets angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains descriptions of sparring gone wrong and the injuries that result from said sparring.

He doesn’t know how Claude pulls it off. 

Felix is glaring at Dimitri, who looks infuriatingly chastised, as though he would gladly avert his eyes, were it not for his royal duty to meet the stare of an accuser. “I am afraid it is my fault,” Dimitri explains after he allows himself to soak in the full impact of Felix’s anger. “I said something to her that I should have kept to myself.” 

“That I don’t doubt,” Felix snaps, refusing to give Dimitri the reprieve of looking away. The other students are watching them warily. Dedue takes a step closer to Dimitri, but does not interrupt. Annette and Mercedes have stopped chatting about their lunch plans. Newly recruited Leonie puts a hand on her hip, like she is already tired of the squabbles of nobles. Ashe murmurs something meant to be placating. 

And Ingrid — 

Is gone. Newly transferred to the Golden Deer, as of yesterday evening. 

Felix’s mind has trouble accepting it, because it doesn't fit with the person he knows Ingrid to be. Sylvain, he understands and to some extent accepts. Ingrid is different — _should_ be different — because she believes in all of the knightly principles and ideals that Felix scorns. 

Dimitri smiles at him, hiding what lies beneath, and Felix can barely stomach the expression. “The professor is a very good teacher,” he says. “If anyone can help Ingrid achieve her goals —” 

“Shut up,” Felix hisses, still thinking this through, still wondering how Claude wormed his way into Ingrid’s attention when she was weakest, on the heal of an argument, the topic of which Felix could but chooses not to guess. He tries to imagine what Claude must have said to her, appealing to her dreams with sweet words, coated with promises, and placed on a platter for her to take as a comfort. 

He’s angry. He’s angry because Claude has successfully delivered a personal blow by taking both Ingrid and Sylvain. Now Felix has been left behind in the Blue Lions as the only remaining childhood friend from their group. Felix Hugo Fraldarius, descendent of Kyphon, remains at the prince’s side. 

His father would be proud. So, naturally, the first thought that comes to mind is that he wants to defect, too. 

Which is exactly what Claude wants him to think. 

Dimitri has been watching him, something strange in his eyes — not the boar, he still keeps that hidden, nor the regal stare of a prince. He looks concerned for Felix, pitying, as though he can see exactly where Felix’s mind has led him. 

“My only wish is for Ingrid — for all of you — to be happy,” he says, and it is almost as though he is giving his leave for Felix to follow them. 

But Felix can’t, because he’s stuck in this battle with Claude, and doesn’t believe in self-sacrifice. He will not have his hand forced. 

“Stop lying to yourself,” Felix replies, this time calmly. Resolute. He doesn’t leave. 

And if there’s any hope in Dimitri’s eyes when Felix takes a seat, begrudgingly but firmly maintaining his place in the Blue Lions, Felix refuses to see it. 

* * *

It is rare for Felix to visit his friends’ rooms, simply because he has no reason to do so. It was different when he was younger, scared of everything and always in need of someone to comfort him. Back then, he’d walk in on any of his friends and snuggle under their covers, refusing to leave until morning. 

Those years are long over, but tonight Felix knocks on Ingrid’s door. 

She answers, still awake, but appearing ready for bed. “Felix,” she says, taken aback, clearly having expected it to be someone else. Probably Sylvain. “Hello.” 

“Ingrid. Can I come in?” 

Ingrid still looks surprised as she steps aside and says, “Of course,” closing the door behind him. Felix would have had no problem having this talk in the doorway, but he doesn’t want to run the risk of anyone happening upon them mid-conversation. 

He doesn’t bother with niceties or small talk. “You changed classes.” 

“Oh,” Ingrid replies, carefully, as though she isn’t sure where this is going. “I did.” 

“That’s all you have to say about it?” Felix asks. He’s no good at schooling his tone — the disdain leaks into it. 

“What is there to say?” She isn’t defensive, yet. She still seems unsure why Felix brought this topic to her room. 

“What about all that nonsense about chivalry and pride?” He crosses his arms. “Serving your King and following orders?” 

For a long moment, Ingrid stares at him, agape, as though she can’t believe what she is hearing. 

When she finally speaks, it’s without her usual energy — there is no motherly chide in her tone. If anything, she’s disappointed. “Of all people, I thought you would understand.” 

That irritates him. “Understand? What? That all it takes is a little argument for you to turn your back on everything?” How is it that out of all of them, he is the one left with the burden of the boar — how is it that he is the only one who remains strong in the face of Claude’s scheming? 

In response to his anger, Ingrid finds some of her passion again, her volume rising. “I haven’t turned my back on anything. I still —” 

“Don’t say it,” he interrupts with disgust, refusing to hear her profess her ideals all over again, like a child with the wool pulled over her eyes. 

“This is unbelievable.” Ingrid shakes her head. “First you tell me I’m an idiot for wanting to follow orders as a knight. Now you’re mad at me for doing something for myself. What’s the right answer for you, Felix? Do you even know?” 

If Sylvain were here, he’d say something to diffuse the tension. Something about how it’s just a class, there’s no reason to take it so seriously, and by the way have they seen that cute monk posted in front of the cathedral? 

But Sylvain isn’t here to stop Felix from taking it too far. “The only thing worse than a fool who glorifies blindly following orders is a hypocrite.” 

Ingrid still believes in all her sappy ideals, Felix has no doubt about that. She let herself get cornered in a moment of weakness, and she was used as a pawn. 

At first, Ingrid looks too shocked to be hurt. Then her expression shifts into what Felix assumes could be a mirror image of his — anger, disappointment. 

“Get out.” She opens the door. “Now.” 

Felix steps out and Ingrid slams the door behind him. 

* * *

Though he spends most of his free time at the training grounds, Felix understands the importance of rest. He knows that being tired and overworked will not benefit him — that he must take breaks, eat well, and get at least a few decent hours of sleep, or he will not improve his skills. He does, on occasion, upset the balance, but he tries his best to maintain a routine that will further his goals. 

There are times, however, when Felix cannot tear himself away from the training grounds for anything other than the absolute necessary — where he spars with anyone who glances his way and destroys as many training dummies as the knights will allow. 

This is one of those times. 

Sylvain has stopped by twice in the past two days to tell Felix to take it easy, to explain that Ingrid is mad but it is nothing they can’t work through, especially if Felix decides to eat lunch with them to talk it out. Felix doesn’t like the apologetic air he carries, the way his tone seems to say, _We didn’t think it would upset you this much_, so Felix makes him leave both times. __

_ _Dimitri spars with him, also twice, and mercifully makes very little conversation throughout. He seems to sense that Felix needs to let off steam, and that he is an easy target for it. As soon as they are done, however, Dimitri tries to talk to him, which is Felix’s cue to leave to take a nap or eat a meal, so he doesn’t have to engage him. _ _

_ _Everyone seems to think that this is because of Sylvain and Ingrid, that Felix feels betrayed and is beating his emotions away. He doesn’t try to clear up the misconception, because what they assume is easy — what’s actually on his mind is complicated, and none of their business. _ _

_ _Every sparring session, every swing of his sword, every thought works through one central problem that Felix cannot solve: _ _

_ _What is his next move? _ _

_ _Claude’s play was executed perfectly, with ramifications so subtle, Felix still isn’t sure Claude was aware of them all. Though Claude is shrewd and talented and knows far more about everyone than most people could guess, Felix also thinks that some of his success must come from luck. It can’t all be skill. _ _

_ _Or maybe he doesn’t want to admit that it’s skill, because that means that Claude has a better handle on this game than he does, which would mean that Felix is out of his depth. Sure, he can see Claude better than others can see him, but he doesn’t know him, not in the way he needs to win. Whereas Claude can pick up a recent history book about Faerghus or question the two defectors in his class for all the information he desires, Felix can’t do the same with him. Claude came out of nowhere, and while Felix, under any other circumstances, would not care about his personal story, he now realizes that his lack of knowledge is a hindrance to his tactics. _ _

_ _And so he trains as though he believes the wooden dummies hold some kind of answer. _ _

_ _On the fourth day of his near-constant training, Hilda steps into his view, smiling brightly. “Hey, Felix.” _ _

_ _Felix stops abusing the training dummy as soon as she approaches. He needs the break, so he doesn’t bother protesting against the interruption. _ _

_ _“Hilda,” he acknowledges. “Looking to spar?” _ _

_ _“No way,” she replies, making a face. “I wouldn’t be in here at all if I could help it.” _ _

_ _He waits for her to explain further, but she just looks at him, smiling sweetly, waiting for him to ask. _ _

_ _“Well? What do you want?” _ _

_ _“You know how you did that small favor for me?” she asks. “And I said I’d do a small favor in return?” _ _

_ _“I do. I also remember telling you that I had no need for small favors.” Now that he has stopped swinging his sword, his muscles feel weak and shaky. He decides to put away the training sword and end his practice for the day, before he works himself into being unable to use his sword arm at all. _ _

_ _“I remember that too,” Hilda replies, watching him as he secures the sword and makes his tired way back to her. “But I think you might need my help now.” She looks him up and down, making her point. _ _

_ _“I don’t need accessories,” he tells her, flatly. _ _

_ _She laughs. “Oh no, I didn’t mean like that. I just mean...” She pauses, like she’s trying to gather the right words. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, and honestly I don’t want to know because I’m sure it’s _way_ above my head, but I can see you have a problem, and I might have a clue that will help you.” _ _

_ _Hilda is perceptive. He’s learned that through their limited conversations. Not as perceptive as Claude, but she has an intuitive quality to her that she could put to good use, if she bothered to hone it. He has no doubt that she has an idea of the battle that he and Claude are waging, though he isn’t sure if she’s truly unaware of the details, or if she is pretending to be, so she doesn’t get too wrapped up in it. _ _

_ _“Don’t I still owe you?” That has also been on his mind, albeit much less prominently than his next move on Claude. “For Leonie.” He hadn’t been able to complete his end of that bargain. _ _

_ _She looks delighted to hear him bring it up, but she brushes it off with her words. “Oh, that? We can figure something out later.” She waves a hand, like it’s inconsequential. “It’s a separate issue. Right now, I want to settle my debt to you.” _ _

_ _“Walk with me,” he says, eager to leave the training hall. If he doesn’t leave now, he will need to sit down, and if he sits down, he is worried he will have trouble getting back up again. _ _

_ _She nods and they leave together, heading toward the dorms. _ _

_ _“What clue?” Felix asks, essentially agreeing to the terms. Hilda will give him this, and she will no longer owe him a favor. _ _

_ _“I’ve never been in Claude’s room.” She says it as though it is a piece of valuable gossip, placing weight on each word. “I’ve never even _seen_ the inside of this room.” _ _

_ _Felix is unimpressed. “That’s your clue?” _ _

_ _“Think about it,” she urges. “We’ve been here, what, three months now? I’ve been inside of everyone’s room for some reason or another. I’ve helped Marianne with an assignment, Lorenz invited me to tea. I’ve even been in Sylvain’s room, though I left real quick, so don’t get any ideas.” Felix wouldn't; he has a hunch that Sylvain’s normal bag of tricks and pickup lines wouldn’t go much further than Hilda milking his attention for her own benefit. “I’m sure even you’ve had your classmates in your room for some reason or another?” _ _

_ _Felix doesn’t make a habit of entertaining anyone, and unlike many of his classmates, he keeps his room fairly bare, caring only for essentials, so there's no reason for anyone to spend much time in there. But she’s right. Even he has had visitors on occasion — asking about sword practice or offering snacks. _ _

_ _“Have you tried knocking on his door?” Felix asks, because even with her logic, this still seems like a nonsensical clue to a problem he isn’t sure she understands. _ _

_ _“Of course I’ve tried that! He always steps outside and talks to me in the hall, or follows me to my room.” _ _

_ _He doesn’t care about what may or may not be in Claude’s room. His imagination supplies possibilities — books, class notes, maybe a few tools for causing trouble. Objectively, none of this interests him as potentially useful, because he is sure that Claude is careful enough to keep his room clean of anything important, even if he is secretive about his space. _ _

_ _But it is his space. Felix mulls that over, trying to think of it the way he assumes Claude would, from the perspective of someone who spends so much time analyzing people, rather than thinking of this information in terms of his own limited idea of usefulness. _ _

_ _“I see,” he finally replies, and Hilda grins. _ _

_ _“I knew you would!” _ _

_ _It occurs to Felix that she wasn’t entirely clear in her motives. The way she grins at him now, triumphant and happy with his decision, he realizes that she stands to gain something from this. He knows she is going to find him, later, and ask for a report on the state of Claude’s room. _ _

_ _He doesn’t call her out, though. Instead, he asks, “Aren’t you betraying your class leader?” _ _

_ _“Oh no,” she replies, giggling as though Felix just told a joke. “There’s a difference between a betrayal and a scheme.” _ _

_ _A thin and debatable difference, in Felix’s opinion. _ _

* * *

_ __ _

Felix allows his body a few days to heal. He eats well. He sleeps well. He falls back into routine. Then he reintroduces training into his schedule. He ensures he is still in fighting shape, practicing both old and new attacks. 

By the next free day, he’s ready to execute his plan. 

Felix is not a schemer. Whereas Claude tries to plan out his moves way in advance, aiming toward a grand, far-reaching result, Felix is only interested in getting from where he stands now to his goal as efficiently as possible. 

His plan is therefore simple: 

“Spar with me.” 

There are four students in the Golden Deer classroom: Hilda, Ingrid, Marianne, and Claude. They watch him walk right up to Claude, interrupt his conversation with Hilda, and say those three words. Two stare with wide eyes, two with amusement. 

“I’d love to,” Claude replies with that typical, plastered smile of his, “but I’m a little busy right now. Ingrid looks free though.” 

Felix doesn’t look at Ingrid. He keeps his attention on Claude and doesn’t waver. 

“Actually, I was leaving,” Ingrid declares. Felix can hear her gathering her things. 

While she is storming out of the classroom, Felix adds his honey to the pot. “If you win, I’ll join your class.” 

This catches Claude’s interest. It’s brief and fleeting, but there, a slight change in his eyes, a broadening of his practiced smile. 

“Tempting,” he admits, “but I know I won’t beat you with a sword.” 

Felix has his response ready. “Weapons of choice.” 

Claude hums. “More tempting. But if I get away from you, you’re at a disadvantage. Do you think you’re faster than me?” 

Felix hasn’t seen enough of Claude’s abilities to know the answer to that question, but he is already aware of the risks. “I guess we’ll find out.” 

The conversation Claude was having with Hilda has fallen by the wayside. He starts walking. Hilda gives Felix an encouraging nod as he falls in step with her house leader. 

“And if you lose?” Claude asks as they leave the classroom. 

Felix pays close attention to Claude’s face as he answers. “You show me your room.” 

He knows that Claude doesn’t anticipate this request, but Claude doesn’t tense up or change his expression. If anything, his body language becomes looser, more relaxed — he raises his arms and folds his hands behind his head with a sigh. “Is that all?” he asks, sounding bored. “I was hoping you’d ask for something better. Like getting your friends back.” 

Felix knows a ploy when he hears one. He knows that this is a tactic, that Claude is throwing him off because he does not want Felix to see his room. He can see it in the way that Claude presents himself as inviting, aiming a smile in his direction as he adds, “But if that’s what you want...” 

But Claude is considered a skilled schemer for a reason, and it is apparent in this moment: the suggestion makes him falter. Felix is surprised — less at Claude’s play, but more because he had not even considered his friends in this plan. His focus has been on his next move against Claude; he hadn’t even thought to try and fix the fissures that now exist among the Blue Lions. 

And, he thinks belatedly, with some effort, trying to refocus on his goal: why should he? He is not a peacekeeper. He is not Dimitri, trying to appease everyone. This isn’t his to sort out. 

They made their choices. It has nothing to do with him. 

“It’s what I want.” 

* * *

They decide to fight outside, in the woods near the monastery. It provides enough distance so that the knights won’t hear them and interrupt, as well as plenty of places to hide from arrows, should Claude prove faster. 

Felix stretches, readying his body for what he hopes is a worthy challenge. He grasps his sword and bows to Claude, who holds his bow and bows in turn. Then, they move. 

Claude takes off immediately, Felix on his heels. Claude _is_ faster than him, it turns out, but not by much. Felix gets close enough to strike him and aims the training sword at his ribs. He narrowly makes contact, the blade glancing over clothing, but Claude doesn’t falter. Felix has to raise his sword again, affecting his speed just enough that Claude is able to pull off to the side, bolting into the brush, tripping Felix up and effectively putting distance between them. 

“Told you!” Claude calls, rounding on Felix while running backwards several steps, somehow managing to avoid slowing down, despite the tangling nature of the brush. He readies an arrow and releases it. 

Felix dodges and ducks behind a tree. He’s breathing heavily from their run, but he tries to calm his chest so he can listen to Claude’s movements in the brush. 

“Can’t hide forever!” Claude calls. “Better drop your sword! It’s useless now anyway!” 

Felix doesn’t drop his sword, but he does put it back into its sheath — carefully, quietly, so as not to alert Claude. 

He closes his eyes. Listens to Claude slow his pace and adjust his direction, guard down but bow drawn, ready to take the winning shot. He can hear him approach. 

Claude can’t expect what Felix does next, because there is only one person who knows he is capable of his next move, and it isn’t any of the blabbermouths that Claude has recruited to his house. That one person wouldn’t dare tell anyone, because in her mind, sharing this skill with Felix was her way of getting him to keep a secret he wouldn’t have told in the first place. 

He closes his eyes and focuses the way Annette taught him. He had trouble understanding the basics at first, to the point where he nearly gave up, and because of his lagging progress, he's still very much a novice. It therefore takes all his concentration and effort to summon Thunder. When he finally does, he shoves away from the tree, and releases the attack toward where he expects Claude to be. 

His aim is true. Too much so. Felix expects to miss his target, given that his magic is still weak. It’s more to surprise Claude, to buy himself the moments he needs to bring his sword to his chest and claim his win. It would have worked that way, too, if Claude’s freely surprised expression is any indication. 

Instead of missing, however, the bright bolt of lightning hits Claude square in the chest, knocks him backwards and into a tree, his head snapping back and colliding with the bark. 

Claude crumbles. 

Felix had pulled out the training sword before the scene played out in full, ready to rush forward. In the aftermath, it feels heavy in his hand. He drops it. 

Claude makes no sound. 

A shameful part of Felix wants to believe that this is a ruse, that if he rushes to Claude, he will get an arrow held to his throat. It makes him hesitate. 

But Claude couldn’t have faked those consequences, so Felix grits his teeth and finally forces himself to run to where Claude is still crumpled on the ground — crumpled, but moving. 

Felix doesn’t realize he was holding his breath until Claude groans and stirs, opening his eyes. 

It takes a moment for Claude to process the situation, but once he is fully aware, he looks at Felix. 

And then he laughs. 

It's a pained laugh, rough around the edges, punctuated with a grunts of discomfort, but it sounds so real, so openly happy, that Felix is instantly thrown off his axis. He’s confused, still running on adrenaline, and Claude is laughing, _really_ laughing, like getting blasted with magic and colliding with a tree is the most fun he’s had in ages. Like this wasn’t a misstep that could have been much, much worse. 

Felix looks down and sees that his hands are shaking, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to clench them. 

"That — ow!" Claude attempts to get to his feet, but decides against it and slumps back down, holding his head. He's wobbly and out of sorts, but it doesn't stop him from running his mouth and laughing all over again, like a glutton for punishment. "Was great. I didn't see that coming _at all_." Despite his slow and unsteady speech, he sounds impressed. 

Hearing him now, Felix realizes this is the first time Claude has ever sounded genuine. 

A normal person might respond with relief or concern — help Claude stand up, ask him if he's okay. A normal person might even be flattered, to receive a true compliment from someone who is always contrived, and to hear that unbridled laughter. 

Felix is not a normal person. It throws him completely off balance, because this is not something Claude should be happy about — he could have been killed — and this is not how he wanted to win. 

More than that, Claude’s smile actually reaches his eyes, and the way he looks at Felix — squinting but delighted — breaks the unspoken boundaries between them. These moments aren't supposed to be given freely. 

"You must have hit your head hard," Felix replies, all ice, no warmth, taking the small amount of slack from Claude and using it to double down on his own defenses, "because you dropped your mask." He turns away. He can't look at Claude right now. He can’t _face_ him. 

Claude stops laughing. 

When he replies, his tone is softer, placating, a little more careful. Like he is trying to comfort a scared animal. "It was a pretty hard smack," he says slowly, quieter. "I might be a little concussed.” 

Felix is already leaving. He should have walked away long before this. 

“Felix —” Claude calls again in that soft tone. 

Felix walks further away, and then Claude has no choice but to yell, this time through teeth clenched against the pain. "I really might have a concussion! I could use some help getting back!" 

Felix doesn't stop. Claude is well enough to laugh. Claude is smart and resourceful. He'll get back on his own. 

* * *

It’s late when Claude leaves the infirmary, Manuela sending him off with stern words about sparring in such a dangerous manner, asking him one more time to name his co-conspirator so she could subject him to a well-deserved lecture for not helping Claude to the infirmary. Claude just smiles and shrugs and says he can’t even remember who it was, must have knocked that knowledge right out of his head. 

He is healed of his concussion and the injury to his chest, but a headache throbs behind his eyes, and he knows he still has a lot to sleep off. Even so, a deal is a deal. There’s something he has to do first. 

While he walks back to the dorms, he considers how his next conversation will go — rehearses several possibilities in his head, trying to settle on the one that will be most palatable. He knows Felix wouldn’t be open to Claude offering him reassurances or downplaying the event, which narrows his choices down considerably. 

He had told Felix a while back that he wasn’t a lion, half-hoping Felix would take the bait and ask what animal Claude saw in him, since he had taken it upon himself to choose a rather startling appropriate representation for Claude. Felix hadn’t taken the bait, though, and maybe it was all for the better. Claude decides that he might want to keep this analogy to himself for a while longer. 

Felix is like a wolf — fierce and bold, threatening, difficult to approach, often breaking off on his own but always returning to his pack, whether he cares to admit it or not. But if you corner him — if you get too close, or try to, say, recruit him to a specific class in the name of the greater good — he turns into a rabbit. Not a meek rabbit, raised by hand, easy to subdue, but a wild rabbit that would bite and kick, and then turn tail and run. 

He saw it during their fight: Felix the wolf, brilliantly landing his win, and then Felix the rabbit, escaping his predator. 

It was almost amusing, maybe even endearing, except it had also meant that Claude had to haul his concussed self through the woods, back to the monastery, and ask a knight to assist him to the infirmary. 

Though, he supposes, in a way that is amusing, too. Or would be, once his head stopped aching. 

He knocks on Felix’s door, because despite leaving Claude in the woods, Felix deserves his prize. His attack was dangerous, sure, but it had truly caught Claude off guard — and that had been exhilarating in its absolute rarity. Claude can’t remember the last time someone surprised him like that, surpassing his expectations. He had never once seen nor heard of Felix casting any kind of magic, and for someone who prides himself on considering all possibilities, he is impressed. 

Felix answers, looking as though he had been in bed but not sleeping, his hair loose and mussed but his eyes alert in the dim light of the hallway torches. He doesn’t say anything. 

“I just got back from the infirmary,” Claude tells him. “Haven’t even been in there to clean anything up yet.” Meaning, he is still willing to take Felix to see his room in its unaltered state, if he decides he wants to claim his prize. 

In truth, bringing Felix into his room is the last thing he wants to do, which of course means it was an excellent move on Felix’s part, undoubtedly inspired by a certain Golden Deer. There’s nothing of note in it, of course. Claude is too smart to have anything betraying his identity on monastery grounds, so even if Felix were the snooping type, he would find nothing worthwhile. Even so, Claude values his private space. It’s important to him to have somewhere safe to retreat to, when he needs it. 

Maybe Felix won’t relish this win the way he should — Claude certainly isn’t willing to share that his stomach tightens with distrust and anxiety once Felix nods his head and follows him to the next room over — but he should have at least some idea of what this means. 

Claude leads him inside, shutting the door behind him, and lights a candle while Felix stands and watches him. “You can look around,” Claude tells him, even though the offer makes him uncomfortable and the idea of anyone touching his carefully neutral but still private belongings bothers him far more than he even wants to admit to himself. 

Most of his room, his bed included, is covered in books. Claude isn’t exactly tidy, though he wouldn’t consider himself messy, either. There’s a method to it all, one only known to him. From where he stands at the door, Felix surveys them, then turns his attention to Claude’s chess board, the one he got from Teach. Then he looks at the desk, covered with notes, before settling his eyes on Claude. 

“This is enough,” Felix answers. 

Claude appreciates that. He really does. 

But he has an image to maintain, so he rolls his eyes and says, “Aw, come on, what good is this if you don’t look? You could at least try to find something juicy. Like the poison I made — where did I put that?” Claude makes a show of looking for it, distracting himself, but Felix still lingers at the door. 

“I’m not interested in your poison,” Felix replies, finally returning to his annoyed scoffing. “Or your room, anymore. It’s as boring as I expected.” 

“Ouch.” Claude stops fussing at his belongings. “I live here, you know.” 

Felix exhales in response, a noncommittal noise. “Sleep off your headache,” he tells Claude before he exits, leaving of Claude’s belongings in their places, untouched. 

That night, Claude is able to sleep soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In canon, Felix has a budding talent in Reason but it’s also his weakness, so getting his talent to bloom is a hassle...but worth it! Just to be clear, Annette is the one who is teaching him Reason in exchange for Felix to keep his mouth shut about her singing. 
> 
> Also, his personal ability is literally Lone Wolf, hence the wolf analogy. This ability gives him extra damage when he fights without battalions, which will come into play later. 
> 
> Next time: Miklan throws a wrench in everyone’s plans.


	3. Concessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miklan throws a wrench into everyone’s plans. Some things fall apart, and some are put back together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning, we start getting into some specific story spoilers here. Also, this chapter contains a battle scene which results in a bloody and scary (but not fatal) injury.

Felix prefers to eat alone. He mentions that to the professor whenever she invites him for a meal. He reminds Annette when she drags him to the dining hall after helping him with his Reason studies. He tells Hilda when she drops by to offer more of her unsolicited advice in hopes of getting Felix to do more of her dirty work. 

He does not say it to Marianne. 

Marianne is quiet, meek, the kind of person who might, under normal circumstances, shy away from Felix’s cold, unwelcoming demeanor. She tends to look down at her plate instead of meeting his eyes, and aside from politely asking if she can dine with him, she usually says very little. 

She had worked up the courage to sit with him after she and a few of the other Golden Deer had followed Hilda to his table to ask for details about Claude’s room. Marianne had spoken only once at that time to confirm her interest, a quiet, “I would also like to know,” before she was overshadowed by the others. 

Though everyone was disappointed to hear that Claude’s room was boring and that he wasn’t hiding anything in there worth mentioning, they all ate lunch with him, as a group, inventing ideas about where Claude must keep his secrets. 

It had been a very loud lunch. 

After that, Marianne had taken to sitting with him in this quiet manner occasionally, if they happened to be in the dining hall at the same time. He eventually asked her why she bothered to sit with him when he obviously made her so uncomfortable. She had admitted it was due to his lack of small talk, and because if she has someone to eat with, no one else would try to make small talk with her either. 

It had been an acceptable answer for him. After all, it works the other way, too. Sitting with her means he is left alone. 

Today is one of the exceptions, Marianne quietly moving food around on her plate hardly a deterrent for one Sylvain Gautier, who sets his plate beside her and flashes her a grin as he sits. “Mind if I join?” he asks even though he has already done so. “You’re looking lovely today, Marianne.” 

“Um.” Marianne looks up at Felix, only briefly, before looking back down. “I...I was just leaving.” She stands and carefully picks up her unfinished plate. “Excuse me.” Then she rushes off before anyone can protest. 

“And she’s gone,” Sylvain remarks, watching her go. “That was fast.” 

“Any woman with sense would run from you,” Felix points out. 

“Marianne, huh?” Sylvain ignores his comment in favor of a jab of his own, raising his eyebrows at Felix. “All this time you had me convinced you weren’t interested in girls, but here you are, wooing away.” Felix can tell his heart isn’t in the tease, his affect all wrong, inviting little by way of frustrated response. This isn’t about Marianne, really — and Felix is beginning to think he had wanted her to leave. 

“She uses me as a shield against people like you,” Felix answers, cutting into the slab of meat on his plate. 

When Sylvain is like this — all smiles but fidgety in the wrong ways — it’s easy for Felix to keep his own annoyance in check. They balance each other like that — Sylvain easygoing in the face of Felix’s scorn, Felix relaxed when Sylvain’s antics are more defensive than instigating. 

“Better not tell her I’m your mentor, then.” He winks, but even that comes across as Sylvain just pushing through his usual script to get to the real matter at hand. He doesn’t follow it up with further comment. They lapse into silence, Sylvain poking at his food without eating it. 

Felix doesn’t wait very long for Sylvain to muster the push he needs to say what’s on his mind. He doesn’t have the patience for kid gloves, and he knows Sylvain wouldn’t be sitting here right now if wanted someone softer to hold his hand. So Felix asks outright, “Are you going to tell me?” 

When Sylvain looks back at him, a self-depreciating smile on his face, the kind that he reserves only for these moments, away from the eyes of all the women who have grown accustomed to his practiced charm, Felix knows that this is far more serious than he could have anticipated. He sets down his fork and knife and braces himself. 

“It’s about Miklan.” And then, as if that’s not enough of a hit, a jolt of Sylvain-centric memories from Felix’s childhood searing their way back across his mind, Sylvain adds, “Your father’s here.” 

* * *

When Felix and Sylvain were young, they made a lot of stupid promises. Promises about what games they were going to play next visit, about birthday gifts they were going to give, about keeping each other’s secrets, no matter what. 

About sticking together until they die together. 

The childish promises that they strung throughout their youth have no business in their adulthood, where the pain of loss and complications of personal responsibilities have slowly wedged their way between them, complicating the terms that were one simple. Childhood promises shouldn’t be expected to survive adult issues like dead brothers, the wavering control of a would-be king, or the absolute heavy burden of a crest that might as well be a target on your back. 

And yet, as Felix leaves the monastery, avoiding the training grounds where his father undoubtedly waits for him, all he can think about are how foolish they were, back then, and how foolish he continues to be now. 

He walks until he happens upon Claude, reclining beneath a tree, eyes closed. It isn’t the safest place for a nap; though bandits usually don’t usually come this close to the monastery walls, they have been caught lurking around. But it’s an issue that is firmly not Felix’s concern, so he ignores the sight, and continues on his way. 

Or, tries to. 

Just as he walks past, Claude opens an eye. “Sorry, this spot is already claimed.” 

“I wasn’t looking for a spot,” Felix replies, silently weighing how much he feels like dealing with Claude. The obvious answer is not at all, but really, Felix could use a distraction. He has too much on his mind — Miklan, his father, the way Sylvain laughed (empty, hollow) when he said he was up to the task of taking down his brother. Claude is bothersome enough to irritate him into other, less important thoughts. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Claude tells him, sitting up to lean against the tree. “It looks like you’re trying to hide.” 

“I’m going for a walk.” 

“True,” Claude agrees. “But that’s not what you usually do on a day like today.” He tilts his head, squinting in the sunlight. “Is it?” 

He’s right. Felix should be training right now. _Wants_ to be training right now, so he can work through his own personal solution to the Miklan-shaped problem that has entered Sylvain’s life all over again. But visiting the training grounds means his father will eventually find him, and he’s sick of the other alternative, having spent hours in his dorm room already that morning. 

“That’s none of your business,” Felix replies, lacing his tone with warning. “Is it?” 

Claude, undeterred as always, pats the ground next to him. “Sit. I’ll share my napping spot with you, just for today.” 

“I’ll pass.” 

“No schemes attached, promised,” Claude adds, placing an arm across his chest and bowing his head to communicate his dubious sincerity. 

“Are you even capable of keeping a promise like that?” Felix doubts it, but he also doubts that this walk of his is going to end anywhere except right back to the monastery, to the decision he knows he needs to make, and to his father’s empty words about duty. 

“Only one way to find out.” He brandishes his hand at the spot he has designated for Felix. “Come on, what else are you going to do? Sulk all day?” 

Against his better judgment, Felix takes a seat next to him. “If you try anything, I’m leaving.” 

“Good choice.” Now that Felix has settled, Claude lies back down on the ground, folding his arms under his head and shutting his eyes. “There’s nothing better than a nap under the open sky.” 

“Except a nap in a bed,” Felix replies, though there is no real argument in his tone. 

“Beds are great,” Claude agrees, “but a bed can’t give you this.” He doesn’t gesture, so Felix has no idea what he’s indicating. 

“A sore back and insect bites?” 

“So cynical.” Claude clicks his tongue. “Give it a try. Lie back and relax.” 

Felix sighs, but as he’s already annoyed with their conversational loop, he shifts until he’s on his back, squinting up at the sky. 

Claude opens his eyes to glance over at him, then props himself up on his elbow. “That doesn’t look relaxed to me. You’re all stiff.” 

“The ground is hard and I think I’m lying on a rock,” Felix replies flatly — of course he’s stiff. 

Claude laughs. “Just close your eyes for a second.” 

He does, but the action only makes him more tense, on his guard in the event that Claude reveals all of this to be some kind of ploy. He listens closely, waiting for any indication that Claude is up to no good, but all he hears is Claude lying back down. 

“Feel the sun on your face. Listen to the breeze. The birds. The grass.” He pauses for a long moment, giving Felix the opportunity to do as instructed. “Doesn’t it make you feel small? No matter what happens today, or tomorrow, a year from now, or five years from now — there’s still a big world out there that keeps on moving.” 

“Maybe the absolute indifference of the world is comforting for you.” It’s a half-formed thought, but Felix phrases it as though it’s a complete sentence. He has long understood the idea that Claude is presenting — that everything will keep turning even when your world is crumbling down — but he has never found comfort in it. He accepts it as a hard truth and moves on, same as always. 

“Is it indifference, though?” Claude asks quietly. “This same world is what keeps us alive, breathing, able to shoot our arrows and swing our swords. If it didn’t keep moving, we wouldn’t be here.” He hums, soft and considering. “The earth takes care of us, even when everything else falls apart.” 

It edges on blasphemy, but Felix feels the same about blind devotion toward gods as he does toward blind devotion to men. He also feels like this must be a strange, babbling way to pick at his brain, nearing topics that he wouldn’t want to discuss on a good day, so he deflects. “Is this what you do all day? Lie around in the grass and pretend to be a philosopher?” 

That elicits a chuckle. “Nah. I do love a good nap in the sun, but I don’t really mean any of that. I’m just trying to bore you into relaxing.” There’s a slight sound of fabric against ground, as though Claude shrugs. “Did it work?” 

“No,” Felix replies, but he doesn’t open his eyes. The sun, he has to admit, does feel good. “You’re the least relaxing person I know.” 

“My poor, fragile feelings.” Claude tries to sound wounded, but his tone is lazy, too at peace to have any effect. 

They fall quiet. Felix does listen to the breeze, the birds, the grass. Claude is silent and still beside him, but Felix doesn’t think he’s sleeping. 

After an indeterminate amount of time, Felix breaks the silence, his voice low. “I’ll join your class if I can go on this month’s mission.” If he can fight Miklan, he means. If he can fight alongside Sylvain. 

“Okay,” Claude replies quietly. “I’ll talk to Teach.” 

True to his word, he accepts Felix’s proposal without saying anything more. He doesn’t gloat or tease, he doesn’t angle with a scheme or ask for anything in return, even though Felix has turned the tables and come to him with the request. He accepts it, and they both fall back into silence, Felix listening to the humming of the earth around them, a backdrop to Claude’s steady breathing. 

* * *

Claude knew from the beginning that recruiting Felix would come with risks. 

The transition is easy. Felix has already become friends with several of the Golden Deer, whether he realizes it or not, and the remainders are quick to warm to him. Raphael, in particular, is as smitten with Felix’s love of meat as he is his approach to training. The class welcomes him with open arms, despite the near-permanent scowl on Felix’s face and his insistence that he just wants to get up to speed for the mission. 

The issue is the mission itself, and how quickly they move from his recruitment to deployment. His inexperience with the class in real-life battle scenarios makes him a wildcard. Claude has no doubt that in time, Felix will see the value of Teach’s command, that he will learn to lean on his fellow Golden Deer when necessary, and that they will pull through for him, just as he will pull through for them. But without that crucial experience, without seeing Teach in action and learning to trust her word, he doesn’t know if he can trust Felix to follow orders. 

Teach can see it too, initially hesitant to agree to deploy Felix right away, being unfamiliar with his fighting style herself. Adding to her hesitance is Felix’s refusal to fight with a battalion. In Claude’s opinion, it isn’t an inherently bad approach — Felix is quick and fights as though he refuses to be rooted in place. He can see how a battalion would slow him down. But it is risky, all the same. 

And then there is the familial connection to Miklan, which affects the emotional state of not one, but _three_ Golden Deer students. Had this battle even been remotely possible to predict, Claude would have changed his approach to recruitment. He may not have even started this in the first place. Of course, he had no way of knowing that the church would willingly send a group of students to take down a fellow student’s brother, but that is a matter for another day’s consideration. 

Ultimately, Teach decides that need for extra units on the ground outweighs the risk that Felix presents. She agrees to let him go on the mission, allows him to fight as he prefers, and they move out. 

Now, standing in the rain, Teach having finished her briefing, they prepare to enter the Tower. Claude looks over at his three recruits huddling close together. Ingrid nods to Felix in response to something Claude can’t hear, their fight long forgotten. Felix adjusts his sword belt and in doing so, bumps Sylvain with his shoulder, intentionally, though he plays it off like an accident. And Sylvain, grim though he may feel, smiles and makes a joke that has Ingrid rolling her eyes. 

The scene is so intimidate that Claude can’t help but marvel at their blatant, unspoken trust for each other, shining too brightly in this dreary moment. That closeness interests Claude in a detached way, as a tool that he shamelessly used to win Felix over, but it’s something that he will never fully understand. How can three people share so much and remain at each other’s side, even when Sylvain drags them down with his slovenly behavior, or Ingrid broaches uncomfortable topics with her ideals, or Felix does his best to push them away? Somehow, they find their way back to each other. 

Even the original Golden Deer have formed bonds, new as they may be, that grow stronger with each battle. They foster friendships and exchange secrets, and everyone grows closer, uniting in a form of trust that seems unshakable in moments like these, when danger looms ahead. 

And Claude sits on the outside of it all, observing. He moves each and every one of them like pawns, using those bonds to build up their united strength, so they can all walk away from each mission alive, whole, and ready to fight again. 

That’s his role. It’s why he wanted to recruit Felix. It’s why he smiles even now, cold and wet and charging into a battle that shouldn’t be theirs. He will drive the Golden Deer to success by any means necessary. From a distance. Alone. 

Well, not entirely alone. There’s the professor, who gives Claude enough leeway to pull off some of his schemes, and offers a unique insight, as well as a strong command. But Claude is careful not to buy too deeply into what she has to offer just yet, and still holds most of his cards to his chest. 

“Now!” the profess yells, and they all move according to her order, into darkness, the sound of armor echoing as they climb the stairs. 

The battle goes well. They split into three squads to cover all openings, but keep a tight control over the fight. Gilbert holds their entry point, Teach maintains the stairs, and Claude leads his group — Sylvain, Felix, and Raphael — to where Miklan makes his last stand. 

“I got this,” Sylvain tells Claude. Claude nods and takes cover behind a pillar from a distance, bow drawn and ready in care anything goes wrong. 

Felix and Raphael follow Sylvain, both at the ready, encroaching from different sides but giving him the distance to do what he personally needs. Sylvain doesn’t falter. Miklan tries to strike at him with the stolen relic, but Sylvain dodges and stabs him with his lance. The attack hits, and Miklan is poised to fall. 

And then it happens — all best plans and mitigated risks destroyed as Miklan transforms into a beast. It’s a gruesome sight. The three surrounding students are forced back in different directions, away from each other, until their backs are against the walls, separated by hulking limbs. He can hear Teach, somewhere on the other side of the floor, yelling for her squad to move forward. 

“Felix!” Claude yells, trying to get his attention. “Fall back! Fall back now!” Without a battalion and separated from Sylvain and Raphael and their battalions, he has nothing but himself for protection. And whatever ideas Felix may have about his personal abilities, this is the first time they’re fighting a monster — none of them know what to expect. 

But Felix ignores him. The monster turns toward Sylvain, raising its huge arm and brandishing a set of sharply threatening claws. Claude yells out again, this time for Raphael to have his terrified battalion charge, then aims and shoots an arrow, trying to draw the monster’s attention to his location. He can hear Teach calling out more commands, still too far away. 

Meanwhile, the monster swings at Sylvain, who narrowly dodges the attack. Then, just as Sylvain attempts to counter, Felix raises his sword and attacks with a cold ferocity, driving his blade down into its back, causing the monster to whip around to face him, tail nearly taking out Raphael’s entire battalion in the process. 

Felix stabs it again. The attack weakens the monster, but not enough. The claws that were meant for Sylvain, raised once more, now aim at Felix. The monster roars, strikes, and the sound of tearing flesh fills the corridor. 

Felix falls. 

“Marianne!” Claude yells. “Teach, we need Marianne!” 

Raphael’s battalion finally lands its assault. Sylvain hurls his lance at the beast. Claude sends his own battalion and follows their attack with several of his own arrows. Once they find their rhythm, they make quick work of putting the monster down. 

As soon as it falls, undergoing another sickening transformation back into a man, Sylvain is at Felix’s side, pressing his hands against his wounds. “He’s breathing!” he calls out to Claude, looking up at him for guidance. 

“Marianne’s coming. Raphael —” He doesn’t need to finish. Raphael gently but firmly urges Sylvain back, away from Felix. He’s too emotional, his hands shaking too hard to apply appropriate pressure. Claude takes his place instead, keeps his hands steady and presses his hands against the worst of the bleeding, a wide gash across Felix's abdomin. He tries to hold the wound together, keeping an eye on the weak rise and fall of Felix’s chest. 

Marianne finally reaches them. “Claude,” she urges, her voice losing its characteristic timidity when Claude doesn’t move. “Claude, move your hands.” 

“Oh, right.” He pulls back, stepping away to give her room to work. There’s a flash of light, and everyone collectively holds their breath as Felix is mended. 

Then he coughs and his eyes open. Everyone starts moving again. 

“Oh, Goddess, Felix —” Ingrid is suddenly pushing past Claude, kneeling on the ground as Felix attempts to sit up, dazed and still weak from the blood loss, but whole enough. 

“I thought you were —” Sylvain begins, voice unsteady, pulling away from Raphael to help Felix sit up. 

Raphael is laughing, talking over them, saying he knew Felix would pull through. The other students join them, Felix weakly trying to pull away from all of the attention. 

Then a hand is on Claude's shoulder. He looks at it, then slowly looks up at its owner: Teach. With her other hand, she holds out a piece of cloth, which he takes him her. “You handled that well,” she tells him in her impassive yet oddly comforting tone before going to check on Felix. 

He tries to wipe his hands, but the blood won’t come off. 

* * *

Though long and slow, the march back to the monastery is lively. Felix has to ride back with a knight, too weak to travel on his own, but the fact that he is riding back at all is enough to put everyone in a good mood. They make plans to eat together after they return. Claude laughs and jokes with all of them, encouraging their good spirits, but tonight his cheer is more forced than usual. 

Teach had complimented him, but all Claude can think about is how Felix didn’t listen to his command. In those chaotic moments after Miklan transformed, Claude had quickly planned out what he thought was the best approach, and it all hinged on Felix getting out of harm’s way so the others could work. 

He could blame Felix for being stubborn and ignoring him, but Claude knows it’s more than that — it speaks to his own shortcomings as a commander, and shows he still very much needs Teach for her guidance. She, at least, has an innate tendency to inspire trust. 

When they arrive at the monastery, the students disperse to clean up, then join up again for their celebratory dinner. After that much-needed down time, the group gathers what they can to bring to Felix, undoubtedly to Manuela’s future dismay. Claude waves them off and tells them to send Felix his well-wishes, choosing instead to turn in for the night. 

He’s tired, achy, and his mind is too full. Most of all, he’s weary of smiling. 

So he allows that smile to drop as he walks up the dormitory stairs, and he still isn’t smiling when he crosses paths with Dimitri, who greets him happily, like he’s just the person he wants to see. 

“Claude. Turning in for the night?” 

“Yeah.” Claude making a show of stretching out his sore limbs. “Long day.” 

“Of course.” Dimitri nods but does not step out of Claude’s way. “I heard about the mission.” 

That doesn’t surprise Claude. Secret or not, the students were bound to talk, and Dimitri is technically the future king of three of the students involved. Someone was bound to share the details with him. 

Claude doesn’t know what Dimitri wants — an apology? an offer to send his students back to his class? — and truth be told, he’s too spent to figure it out. “Yeah,” is all he says, again. 

If Dimitri thinks he is behaving strangely, he makes no indication. Instead, he bows, deeply, respectfully, and says, “Thank you.” 

“For what?” Claude forces a laugh. “Come on, that’s not necessary.” 

Dimitri holds his bow for a moment longer, explaining, “I know you helped save Felix’s life.” He then stands and meets Claude’s eyes again. “I admit, I had reservations when they first joined your class, but I now know that they are in good hands.” 

He’s completely sincere — a stark contrast to himself, standing there and finally finding his easy smile, putting it back on his face in response to Dimitri’s praise. Dimitri, who holds no malice for Claude, who has just given Claude his blessing, even though Claude used his three best friends to add strength to his house in hopes of taking down the other houses during the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. 

One day, Claude thinks, Dimitri will get the rug ripped out from under him and he won’t see it until he’s already on the cold, hard floor. 

He reaches out and pats Dimitri on the arm, smiling as brightly as he can manage despite being so done with today, he isn’t even sure he can make it the few remaining feet to his room. “The very best,” he agrees, as though his heart is entirely in his reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Claude truly keeping his promise not to scheme if presenting a scheme-free interaction is the scheme in the first place? 
> 
> Next time: An apology, a wager, and a board game make for a strange flirtation (aka a lot more direct interaction between Claude and Felix, I promise)


	4. Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An apology, a wager, and a board game make for a strange flirtation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to @dragonsnooze for illustrating a scene from last chapter: [Felix and Claude lying under the sky together](https://twitter.com/dragonsnooze/status/1277335698714972160). Please give it a look — it's gorgeous!

Across Felix’s abdomen is a pale, raised section of skin, uneven and bumpy, rough against his fingertips as he touches this newly altered piece of himself. 

Marianne had apologized, sitting at his bedside, blaming herself for the way his deepest wound had healed, wrong and ugly. She just wasn’t good enough yet, she had said, and she had been so afraid. 

Sylvain had walked in, then, and had told Marianne not to worry her pretty little head over it — that he and Felix matched now. To Marianne’s embarrassment, he had pulled up his own shirt to show a scar of his own — less prominent, higher than Felix’s, further toward his ribs, but another gift from Miklan, from long ago. Marianne had averted her eyes while Sylvain declared that he and Felix now had friendship scars. 

Felix, having never been good at comforting others, had merely said, firmly, “It’s fine. I’m alive.” 

Now, as he dresses into the fresh clothes Sylvain brought him, he uses the scar as a map of his failures, each groove a shortcoming he vows to overcome. 

* * *

After he is released from the infirmary and approved to return to normal activities, Felix does his best to avoid the professor. He leaves class as soon as she gives the dismissal and fails to turn up for seminars. He knows she’ll catch him eventually, and then they’ll talk, and she’ll bore into him with those blank eyes of hers and expect him to explain why he failed to listen to Claude’s command to fall back. He hopes, twistedly, that Flayn’s disappearance distracts her, but he knows that even that would be a passing reprieve. 

What he does not anticipate, when she finally finds him on the training grounds, practicing the very move that nearly cost him his life, is the offer to spar. 

He accepts, without question. The professor is a marvel in the way she moves and fights, and Felix uses her abilities as a benchmark for himself. He intends to beat her one day, and the only way he can accomplish that is by actively learning from her. 

When they’re done, both out of breath, Felix once again having lost, she hands him her training sword to put away. “I understand why you did what you did,” she states, the context unspoken but understood. “I hope you learn from the experience. You must come to trust us, just as we are trusting you.” 

He nods, curtly, and says nothing, but it seems to be enough for her. She nods back. 

Before leaving, she adds, “That said, you should apologize to Claude.” 

* * *

The library is nearly empty as the sky grows dark, students and faculty alike choosing to turn in early in response to Flayn’s disappearance. Claude is tucked into a corner in the back. Were it not for the dim glow of candlelight, Felix would have missed him. 

Despite having the library to himself, Claude is sitting on the floor, leaning over a [wooden slab painted with lines and circles](https://cf.geekdo-images.com/imagepage/img/VDUR9eW23pbDjMIGlEsVxIRQ3LM=/fit-in/900x600/filters:no_upscale\(\)/pic438639.jpg). It takes Felix a moment to identify what it is in the dim candlelight of the library, but as he gets closer, he realizes it is a board game. There are two sets of stone pieces on the board, painted white and black and laid out in a pattern. 

Claude must hear Felix approach, but he doesn’t look up right away, instead moving one of the pieces across a line. Only when he seems satisfied does he finally greet Felix. “Did you take a wrong turn?” he asks. “The training grounds are that way.” He points to the library door. 

“I’m done with training for the day,” Felix tells him. “What’s this?” 

“A game.” Claude begins removing the pieces from the board. 

That much is obvious, but if Claude doesn’t want to supply more details, Felix isn’t going to press for them. He’s here for one reason only: “I want to apologize.” 

“For what?” Claude asks without looking up. All of the pieces gathered, he tidies the piles. 

“You know what.” 

“For your attitude?” Claude guesses, still focused on the game pieces. “I’ll admit, you don’t have the sunniest disposition, but that’s between you and —” 

Just like that, all of Felix’s qualms with Claude resurface, his early, sparring-induced clarity of intent now overshadowed by his desire to leave, immediately. “Forget it.” 

“Alright, alright, I’m only kidding.” Claude sits up a little straighter and finally gives Felix his attention. “No one holds it against you, you know.” 

Felix clenches his teeth and takes a breath. “It was foolish,” he forces out. He doesn’t like admitting it, but he is the one who ultimately put himself under Claude’s leadership in the first place, regardless of Claude’s schemes. He may not trust Claude as a person, but he knew, even in the moment, back against the wall and facing down a monster, that falling back was the right call. Claude had been trying to save him, and all Felix did in turn was spurn his attempt and throw all caution to the wind. 

“It all worked out,” Claude replies. “Besides, it could have been worse. You’re the only one who got hurt.” There had been minimal damage in the end, maybe, but the statement feels off to Felix. Claude doesn’t allow him much time to question it, as he immediately transitions the topic. “We have other problems now.” 

That, Felix can agree upon. “The kidnapper.” 

Claude murmurs a wordless noise in agreement, attention still turned on Felix, watching him quietly. Felix nearly decides to walk away and leave, not interested in being thoroughly scrutinized, when Claude finally asks, “Who do you think it is?” 

“What does my opinion matter?” Felix asks, already impatient with his line of questioning, which is off task and serves no purpose. 

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Claude replies in a sing-song tone. “The professor is asking everyone, anyway.” 

Felix sighs, quiet as he considers, then thinks that this is probably the least he can do as a small means of atoning — indulge Claude just enough to alleviate any lingering feelings of contrition. Claude has a talent for pissing him off beyond his capacity for other emotions, if he speaks with him long enough. It’s only a matter of time. 

“Jeritza.” 

Claude leans forward, elbows on his legs, hands folding beneath his chin. “What makes you say that?” 

“The way he’s been handling his blade,” Felix replies. He isn’t confident that Jeritza is the kidnapper, but he _is_ confident that something is going on with him. “He’s been…impulsive.” He glares at Claude as he explains, daring him to challenge his opinion, fully aware that impulsivity isn’t necessary a sign of guilt, but positive that the man is hiding something. 

Claude only nods. “You could be onto something.” Then, considering Felix for a moment longer, he asks, “Why don’t you play a round with me?” 

“No,” Felix replies immediately. “I’ve finished what I came here for.” 

“Come on.” Claude drags the words out with a tinge of a whine. “Are you really going to turn me down after I helped save your life? 

“Yes.” 

“I knew you’d say that!” Claude exclaims, too loudly for a library, but there’s no one around to chide him. “Luckily, I have another trick up my sleeve.” 

Felix waits, unimpressed, for the grand reveal. 

“I went back home a few weeks ago. Alliance business, you know how it goes.” He waves a dismissive hand, as though he details don’t matter. “I received a gift while I was there. A rare sword of some kind.” 

He pauses for effect, knowing full well that he will have Felix’s interest now. Felix tries to keep his expression neutral and guard against what he considers to be a manipulative way to pull him in, but rare swords are an easy way to get his attention. 

“I wasn’t all that interested in it, but a gift is a gift, so I thought I’d at least try it out, and wouldn’t you know, it’s not just any old sword, but a _magic_ sword. You can imagine my surprise when I swung it and almost took out a tree with a bolt of lightning.” 

While magic weapons are common in Fódlan, they usually come in the form of staffs or shields. Swords are less commonly endowed with magic, Heroes' Relics notwithstanding. Naturally, Felix wants to see the blade for himself. 

“Then I was like, ‘What should I do with a magic sword? Do I know anyone who likes magic and swordplay? Is a bolt of lighting colliding with a tree in any way familiar?’” Claude shrugs, over-exaggerating the movement. 

“Will you get to the point?” Felix scoffs, annoyed at his teasing. 

“My point,” Claude emphasizes, “is I brought it back to give to Teach. But that’s boring, so I’m willing to put it up as a wager, if you play a game with me. You win, it’s yours.” 

“And if I lose?” Felix asks, knowing full well that is a very likely possibility. He doesn’t waste his time playing board games, and this one is unfamiliar to him. Claude is at an obvious advantage. 

“Then you have to give me something of yours.” 

“Like what?” Felix asks, flatly. “I don’t have anything you’d want.” He’s a minimalist at best, preferring to avoid any belongings that don’t have an important function in his life. More belongings means more distractions. Felix prefers to keep it simple. He usually ends up tossing a lot of the junk that the professor, well-meaning as she may be, gives him during their free days. 

“We can think about it while we play. And how about this: we'll start with a couple warm-up games so you can learn the rules first.” 

When Felix doesn’t reply, instead standing there in silent consideration, Claude cajoles further. “A little risk for a lot of gain.” 

“Fine,” Felix relents as he takes off his sword belt and sets it on the floor. 

“Great,” Claude replies happily. As Felix sits, he passes him the black stone pieces and assigns himself the white pieces. There are nine each. 

“We take turns putting our pieces on those circles, the goal being to get three in a row,” Claude explains. “If you get three in a row, you take one of my pieces. Once all our pieces are on the board, we take turns moving them along these lines,” he traces one of them, “again trying to make three in a row. If you run out of moves or get down to only two pieces, you lose.” 

“Seems simple enough,” Felix says, picking up one of his pieces. 

“You first.” 

Felix places a piece on the board, then Claude places one of his. Felix places another, and Claude blocks his next move. They exchange a couple more turns, and then Claude makes his first set of three. 

“I’ll take this,” Claude declares, picking up one of Felix’s crucial pieces. Felix has no choice but to place another of his pieces there to cover the gap, and he ends up defending during the rest of the placement phase, losing yet another piece in the process. 

With all of the pieces either in play or captured, the movement phase begins. As soon as Claude moves his first piece, Felix realizes he’s already lost: Claude has claimed a crucial spot on the board that allows him to move out of a row of three and back again, continuously reforming the row, without any of Felix’s places close enough to defend. Before long, Felix is down to two pieces. He loses. 

“This is ridiculous.” Felix angrily picks his pieces off the board, setting them down in a messy pile in front of him. 

“You can back out, if you want,” Claude goads. 

“Just go.” Felix tries to play closer attention this time to avoid being walked into a corner. He puts up more of a challenge, but ultimately plays too defensively and loses again. 

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he grumbles as he pulls his pieces back. “How is this fun for you? You don’t even need to try.” 

“I am trying,” Claude asserts. “I thought you made a few interesting moves that time.” 

“Save it,” Felix snaps, setting down a piece with a little too much force. “Your move.” 

This time, he wins, albeit barely. Instead of feeling any amount of triumph, he shoves his pieces off the board and stands. “You let me win.” 

Claude doesn’t falter under the accusation. “What makes you say that?” 

“I could tell! You held back.” He is almost positive Claude intentionally ignored an opening that Felix had failed to notice and block. 

“Mmm, maybe.” It’s a non-committal response. “Do you want to back out then? Last chance before the real deal.” 

Felix pauses, mid-pace, to survey the board and Claude, who watches expectantly. “I’ll play,” he decides, albeit with heavy frustration. “But only if you swear not to let me win.” He wants to win, but only by his own ability; pandering will teach him nothing. 

“I swear it,” Claude says, the very picture of solemnity. 

“Whatever.” But he sits and plays again, anyway. 

He promptly loses. 

“That was fun.” Claude stretches while Felix stares at the board, mentally reviewing all the wrong moves he made. 

“Fun,” Felix grumbles. Claude tosses him a pouch for the pieces and Felix puts them away. 

Once that’s done, Claude announces, “Time for my prize,” and holds out his hand expectantly. “Your hair tie, please.” 

Felix waits for him to announce that he’s kidding. Claude waits with his hand outstretched. 

“Why?” 

“I thought about asking for something big, like that,” he points at Felix’s sword belt, “but then I figured you’d never play me again, which would leave me stuck with a magic sword that still doesn’t have a home. So I thought I’d start small.” He wiggles his fingers. “Pony up.” 

There’s a lot to unpack in that statement. The assumption that Felix will try and play again if Claude plays his cards right. The fact that the magic sword is still on the table, if he does win in the future. Claude’s unfortunate (and correct) conclusion that Felix will need to be bribed into playing a game with him again. 

But Felix is stuck on one important point: “I only have the one.” 

He had two, but he lost the other one somewhere between the Tower and the infirmary. He can easily purchase another one, but he would need to fit in a trip to the market in between classes and training, which is enough of an inconvenience that he doesn't want to give it up. 

“You’ll figure something out,” Claude replies brightly, wiggling his fingers again. 

With a loud and frustrated sigh that Felix hopes communicates just how irksome Claude’s “little” request is, he reaches back with both of his hands to untie the leather band. He pulls it free, allowing his hair to fall along shoulders, then places it in Claude’s hand. 

Claude holds it up to look at it, then wraps it around his left wrist, tucking away the ends. “What do you think? Suits me, huh?” He brandishes his wrist. 

“It’s just a leather band,” Felix replies, thoroughly dispassionate, already thinking of temporary alternatives so he can train without his hair getting in the way. 

“Just a leather band that will remind you of your brutal loss in a battle of wits with me,” Claude replies with a cheeky wink. 

Felix takes it as his cue to leave, having already spent more than enough time with Claude. He grabs his sword belt, stands, and leaves without further comment. 

It’s only much later, when he’s in bed, brainstorming a solution to his hair tie problem, that Felix realizes Claude never shared his opinion on the kidnapper’s identity. 

* * *

It would surprise no one to know that Hilda Valentine Goneril is not a morning person. As in, she fully expects not to be disturbed before the very second that she is due in class, and she _certainly_ doesn’t accept visitors at the crack of daylight. Anyone who thinks otherwise obviously must have her character pegged completely wrong, because she will espouse the values of rest and beauty sleep and tea before conversation to anyone who even hints that they may visit her first thing in the morning. 

Which is why, when someone knocks on the door to her room as the sun is just coloring the sky, when there is still plenty of time before classes, she has thoughts of a most unkind nature while she hurries herself into something presentable. 

“_What?_” she asks as she opens the door, loading the question with as much indignation as she can muster this early in the morning. 

She has a lecture poised on her tongue — this is _her_ time, thank you, all other matters can wait until she is fully ready to greet the world — but it dies on her lips as soon as she sees it is Felix standing at her door. Felix, with his hair down — which _wow_, softens his features quite a bit, even though he’s still wearing that same scowl — saying, of all things: “I need an accessory.” 

She allows a very long, confused silence to pass between them, where she waits for a punchline or explanation, or even for Felix to admit that he’s been possessed by a spirit. When none of this comes to pass, Felix remaining in her doorway, appearing more annoyed as Hilda stares at him, she tries to compose herself. 

“Oh, of course.” Her words are light, breathy, because she is trying so hard not to laugh at the surreal quality of this visit. If he were look away, she would pinch herself, just to make sure this isn’t a dream. “For your hair, I take it?” 

He nods. 

Just this once, Hilda decides, she can forgive the morning intrusion, if only to milk the situation a little. She invites him in, leading him to her desk where she keeps all her supplies for her accessories. “I’m afraid they’re all...well, you can see.” Her accessories are colorful, with decorative flowers and feminine designs. Needless to say, she doesn’t get a lot of requests from grumpy swordsmen with uninspired tastes. 

“Just pick one,” he tells her, clearly not up to the task himself. 

She selects the plainest one of the bunch, a red strap of leather with a bright but small flower adornment. “If you let me do it, I can probably hide the flower.” 

For a brief, uncomfortable moment, Felix looks as though he _might_ want to pull his sword out in response to the suggestion. But the storm passes, and he clearly sees the merit in her suggestion, because he mutters a short but relenting: “Alright.” 

And that is how Hilda, bright and early in the morning, finds herself seating Felix on her bed so she can brush his hair and style it into a neat little bun. A fact that she thoroughly enjoys telling Claude later that day, who for some reason, waves to Felix with his left hand while listening to the story, a certain leather band poking out from under his sleeve. 

* * *

It is easy to snag Felix’s interest, Claude reflects, watching as Felix carefully considers his next move, finger lingering on one of his stone pieces. He doesn’t need words or gestures, doesn’t seek company for meals or assistance with assignments. Felix responds to challenge — to the lure of a goal, just out of reach, that he can chase toward victory. Felix’s singularly focused drive toward being _better_ keeps him coming back for more. He sees there is value in understanding these games, Claude knows, but more than that, Felix simply wants to win. 

Regardless of where they meet — a corner of the library, a table in the Knight’s Hall, even Felix’s room one stormy evening — Claude always brings his pile of winnings with him, laying out his spoils for Felix to see. They are all innocuous prizes, seemingly insignificant: a half-used whetstone, a near-empty flask of sword oil, a button from his uniform. He knows the uselessness of each item irritates Felix just enough so that he teeters on the precipice of being irked, without being pushed too far over the edge. 

More valuable than the items themselves are the insights that he has gained from playing with him. Felix has a unique and creative approach to strategy, which he begins to employ after the first few losses. He quickly learns to subvert Claude’s expectations, to the point of using his own volatile emotional state to lull Claude into believing his mind isn’t in the game, only to make a move that puts Claude at risk of losing. And, perhaps most impressively, Felix is overly dedicated to his cause. He turns up to one of Teach’s optional tactics lectures, firmly avoiding any contact with Claude, but paying enough that he actively participates in the discussion. 

When Felix does finally win, nearly two weeks into their nightly arrangement, he does so with a quiet triumph, a satisfied, “Finally,” as he sits back to survey the board. 

“You got me.” Claude cleans up the pieces, tucking them away into the pouch. 

“Narrowly.” 

“Sometimes, narrow is all you need.” He ties the pouch, sets it down, then reaches over to push the small pile of Felix’s belongings toward him. “I believe these are yours.” 

“I don’t care about this stuff.” Felix narrows his eyes at Claude, as though he expects him to back out of the overarching wager. “I’ve already replaced most of it.” 

Claude is busy trying to unwrap the hair tie from his wrist, struggling with locating the tucked away ends. “I was never going to keep that stuff. You — there we go.” With a little effort, he frees his wrist, adds the tie to the pile, then rubs the indentation left on his skin. “You still get your real prize.” 

They return to the dormitory together. Felix waits in the hall while Claude retrieves the sword, which he presents hilt-first to Felix. As soon as Felix grips it, the sword crackles with electric energy. In a rare expression of simple enjoyment, as he tests the weight of the sword, Felix actually smiles. “It’s nice,” he tells Claude, which is a high compliment coming from him. 

“It’s yours.” 

Felix lowers the sword to look at Claude. His expression is clear of his usual scowl, free of the piercing way he normally looks at Claude. It is as though he is merely accepting Claude as he is, rather than judging every little detail about their interactions. “Thank you.” 

This is the first time Felix has appeared happy to be in his presence — the first time he's regarded him with anything other than irritation. He catches Claude off guard — a recurrent event, lately — and the moment feels strangely overwhelming. 

“You did all the work,” Claude replies, but his voice doesn’t carry the flippancy he wants it to have. Something is changing, he realizes. Something within him is wavering, he is losing purchase, and his mind stumbles over the realization that this is dangerous — this is bad. Suddenly, the dormitory hall, filled with the light crackling of the sword, seems oppressive and threatening. 

He smiles, his go-to defensive mechanism. “And hey,” he says, casually, easily, no big deal at all. “You’ll have more time to train again.” 

“I suppose I will.” There’s something strange in Felix’s expression, too, and Claude can’t pinpoint why — doesn’t _want_ to pinpoint why, because if he does, he will over-analyze it for the rest of the night, questioning whether he can see through Felix or Felix can see through him. 

This time, Claude is the one who retreats without a parting word, into the safety of his room, feeling distinctly like prey, caught in the center of a trap that he himself laid out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation about Jeritza actually happens in canon, with Byleth instead of Claude. The game that Felix and Claude play is an ancient strategy board game called Nine Men’s Morris. The sword Claude gives Felix is the Levin Sword. 
> 
> Next Time: Claude von Riegan’s guide to ruining a perfectly nice moment (on purpose)


	5. Loyalties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude von Riegan's guide to ruining a perfectly nice moment (on purpose)

After Flayn is rescued, the Golden Deer settle into a new normal, one born out of a fierce desire to look forward toward school events, like the upcoming Battle of the Eagle and Lion, while continuously glancing behind them, waiting for another sinister threat to grace their monthly missions. Felix performs better as a member of the group, Claude and the professor hold strategy meetings in preparation for the battle, and the other Golden Deer, Hilda included, train harder than usual. 

In a rare moment of peace, Felix sits at a table in the dining hall with his childhood friends. Ingrid had dragged him along for the meal, citing the importance of checking in with Dimitri, making sure they all stay on good terms in light of the upcoming battle. Though Sylvain maintains an easy atmosphere with the occasional joke or inappropriate story, Felix spends most of the time in silence, evaluating Dimitri and checking for cracks in his facade. If he had little trust for his composure before, he has none now that the three people who know Dimitri best are no longer keeping a close eye on him. 

They are nearly finished eating when Lysithea approaches with a rushed intensity. “Felix,” she addresses his back, “do you know where Claude is?” 

“Why would I know?” he asks, not bothering to turn around. 

“Look,” Lysithea begins, moving to the side so Felix has no choice but to see her in his peripheral vision. “I’m running late for a seminar, but the professor asked me to give this,” she holds up a book, “to Claude, and I can’t find him anywhere.” 

“Then give it to him after the seminar,” Felix replies in a dry, _not my problem_ tone. 

“I have to study after the seminar.” She sighs, frustrated. “I don’t have time to run all around the monastery looking for him. I thought you might be able to help, since you’ve been spending so much time with him.” 

An uncomfortable silence falls over the table. Lysithea is aware of Felix and Claude’s discontinued nightly board games, having stumbled upon them in the library a couple of times, but this is news to the others. Felix doesn’t have to look at Dimitri to know that he is being assessed; he can guess at the comparisons that Dimitri must be drawing in his head. 

Lysithea doesn’t seem concerned with the shift in the environment, still holding out the book. Felix takes it in hopes of keeping the conversation from spiraling further. 

“Thank you.” Lysithea stretches out the two words with emphasis and then runs off to her seminar. 

Then Felix has no choice but to look back at the group — at Dimitri, who tries to school his expression into neutrality, but who has a very clear shadow across his face. 

“I didn’t know you and Claude get along so well,” Ingrid remarks. 

“We don’t,” Felix assures her. 

“That's good," Dimitri says quietly, as though he failed to hear Felix's denial. "You should spend time with your house leader." Felix can see a hint of something dark in his eyes despite his subdued tone. He can hear the implication: that Felix made no such effort with him. 

Felix looks away. 

Sylvain tries to make light of it. “Don’t worry, Your Highness, Felix is as grumpy with Claude as he is with you. Grumpier, even.” 

“Enough.” Felix has met his threshold of tolerance. He stands, book in hand. “I’m leaving.” 

“Hey, don’t be like that,” Sylvain calls. “Felix —" 

He ignores him and exits the dining hall, bringing the book with him. 

Lysithea was right. He can guess where Claude might be. 

* * *

Outside the monastery walls, next to a specific tree, Claude hunches over a sketch of a map, held down by two large rocks. As Felix approaches, he can see scribbles in the margins — notes about terrain and weather. On top of the map are mismatched pieces from different board games, including a few from the game he and Claude played together not too long ago. 

Claude seems mildly surprised to see Felix, which Felix accepts at face value because doesn’t feel like trying to calculate his honesty. Felix holds out the book, a large volume on the County of Bergliez, which Claude accepts with an enthusiastic, “Perfect timing.” 

“What is all this?” Felix asks. At a glance, the layout of the game pieces doesn’t seem to follow any sort of pattern. 

“This,” Claude says proudly, “is the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.” 

Felix studies the map again. It takes a little effort, given the ragtag nature of the mixed game pieces, but he can see that there are actually three groups of pieces converging on each other. “You shouldn't plan our strategy out in the open.” 

“This is the perfect place to plan,” Claude argues. “Away from the monastery’s prying eyes. Except yours.” He says it pointedly, a mild accusation in his tone. “Besides, the weather’s getting cooler. Might as well enjoy it here while I can. I’ll have to find a new napping spot soon.” 

Felix is still busy looking at the map, trying to work out Claude’s approach to the battle. Seeing this, Claude leans forward and swipes all of the pieces off of the map and into a messy heap. “Now, now, no peeking,” he chides, “I happen to you know you’re well-acquainted with the enemy.” 

Felix takes more offense to that than he should. He’s already on edge from his lunch discussions, but even if he hadn’t spent his meal staring down Dimitri, the insinuation that he might act against his class bothers him. There is a grain of truth in it, after all; regardless of his reasons, he left Dimitri behind, and shortly thereafter, failed to follow Claude’s command. 

It is also no secret that Felix holds no admiration for blindly following a leader, but there's a big difference between taking a stand against service that ends in meaningless death and actively sabotaging your loyalties. Felix wants to carve his own path, one that is not dictated by his father or his duty to Dimitri, but he doesn't think that makes him a traitor. That black-and-white, all-or-nothing perspective is sustained by the glorification of knighthood, and it prevents Felix from being able to occupy the gray space in between. 

Claude is watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. Felix doesn’t have the ability to shut away his emotions the way Claude can, and so he knows Claude can see the quick shuffle of his reaction: the surprise, followed by a flash of hurt, and then the anger. 

“Fuck you.” 

“It was a joke,” Claude counters, but Felix doesn’t buy it. It’s clear from the way he begins laying out the pieces again — rather than putting them back into their previous locations, he lines them up in their starting positions. 

“You're a liar.” This, Felix thinks, is the reason it is so easy to ignore Claude’s command. He gives so little, so when he asks for loyalty, there’s nothing to return to him. 

“Jeez, lighten up a little,” Claude remarks, his tone easy as always. 

Felix attempts to take a steadying breath, but it catches in his throat, anger tightening his lungs. Out of habit, his hand moves to his sword hilt and rests there. “If you were a king,” he says, slowly, mustering every ounce of patience he has, keeping himself grounded long enough to make this statement, “I would not bend my knee for you.” 

Felix doesn’t know why this seems to hit a nerve, but he can see it does. Claude, as he so often reacts when Felix manages to strike at something raw, suddenly seems so much looser, his body language so much more inviting. He sits back against the tree, spreading himself out, as though to welcome the commentary. “Good thing I’m no king." 

“However,” Felix continues, still keeping himself in check, though his control hangs on a dangerously thin thread, “as long as I am a Golden Deer, you have my word that I will not —” he can’t help it; his hand tightens on his hilt and the spite leaks into this tone as he finishes, “share secrets with ‘the enemy.’” 

A moment of silence follows and stretches before them — Felix, tense, hand at his sword, and Claude, loose, openly observing. 

Then Claude begins to laugh. That same genuine laugh from the time Felix’s attack sent him colliding with a tree, surprise mingling with his mirth. “I don’t know if you’re insulting me or pledging your loyalty to me,” he chortles. “Should I watch my neck or tell you my plans?” 

“You could do both,” Felix suggests, still tense. 

“I guess I could.” Then, amending that statement: “I guess I will.” Still laughing, Claude waves a lazy hand, as if trying to dispel the unsettling air between them. “Alright, I’ll let you win this one. Take a seat, I’ll show you what I’ve got in mind.” 

Felix removes his sword belt and sits. He feels no more relaxed in doing so than he had in the moment prior, but this is what he had wanted, and so bitterly or not, he waits for Claude to explain. 

“This is roughly what we should look like in the beginning,” Claude says. Most of the pieces are in place, now, with only a few remaining. “This —” He sets down a queen piece. “Is Edelgard, surrounded by her troops. And this one,” he picks up a carved piece of stone that looks as though it’s meant to be an animal of some kind, “is Dimitri, back here.” He sets the piece down. 

Felix watches as Claude puts his finger on top of a black pawn. “This is you.” He slides the pawn to the right, through some hastily sketched brush, across a bridge. “This is where I think you should move, right at the beginning.” He looks back up at Felix. “Do you know why?” 

“Because I’m fast. You can’t send a cavalry unit because of the brush.” 

“Yes,” Claude agrees, pushing the Felix-piece further. “You’re fast, and you’ll be alone. I’ve been thinking a lot about how you don’t want a battalion, and I think we can use that to our benefit. Edelgard won’t see you coming.” 

“And if she does?” Felix asks. 

“If she does, she’ll underestimate you. She knows you didn’t want to join the Golden Deer and she knows you didn't follow orders at the Tower. She’ll see you all alone and she’ll think you’ve gone rogue again. Why else would you be go for her by yourself? Meanwhile...” he moves a subset of pieces along the trail behind Felix, hidden in brush, ready to attack while Edelgard focuses her attention on Felix. 

“How does she know?” Felix asks. 

“What?” Claude is still excitedly moving pieces into formation. 

“How does she know what happened at the Tower?” 

Claude finally realizes what Felix is asking and stops moving pieces on the board. “Oh. Gossip gets around, nothing’s really a secret around here.” He says it easily, deflecting with such little effort that it sounds plausible. “Someone must have told her.” 

“_You_ told her,” Felix accuses. 

Claude inclines his head one way, then another, not quite a nod, but not a shake either. “Ehh...not directly...” 

“Unbelievable!” Felix throws up his hands, still primed with the vexation from moments prior. “Everything is a scheme with you.” 

“I’m just working an angle. You gave us this opportunity and I’d be stupid not to take advantage, when it could get us the win.” 

Before Felix can retort, he continues. “Look at the bigger picture.” Claude picks up a white pawn, and moves it in the other direction, across the other bridge, toward Dimitri’s forces. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to win so you —” With his free hand, he gestures toward Felix’s piece and the other troops still in their starting formation. “Don’t have to.” Then he moves the white pawn into fighting position and uses his index finger to trace an invisible arrow path from the pawn to the Dimitri piece. He knocks it over. 

“And this is the only solution you could come up with? Sacrifice the reputation of your men to get the win.” It’s dirty, Felix thinks. This is why Claude fails to inspire trust as a leader. 

“Do you have a better idea?” Claude asks. “Say we go with no schemes. Just a typical battle: you down the middle, a squad across to Edelgard. They’ll meet Hubert. We can send Ingrid to fight Dimitri, then I’ll go for the arms on the hill. What then?” 

“We fight,” Felix replies, simply. 

“We fight, and we lose.” 

It’s true, Felix has to admit. They would likely lose. Dimitri would fall to either of them because he’s lost three of his best fighters to the Golden Deer, but Edelgard’s house is tighter and more disciplined than Claude’s. Even with the professor on their side, Felix can’t feel confident that they’ll pull out the win, especially since the professor can’t be in both places at once. 

He doesn’t say this out loud, but Claude must see the conclusion in his expression, because he continues. “That’s why I always have a plan.” He taps the black pawn. “And we have Teach.” He picks up an ornate jeweled piece that doesn’t match any of the others, placing it near the center hill. “And I —” The white pawn now, still in the bushes near Dimitri, “will make sure we don't lose.” 

At that, Felix has no choice but to recognize a small similarity between himself and Claude. _Very_ small, but enough that he can feel himself deflating. Because even though he thinks that Claude’s cagey approach will come back and bite him, that he will fail to foster success as a leader beyond these monastery walls, he understands what it is like to have a singular drive toward a goal, at the expense of all else. 

“Are you having second thoughts?” Claude asks in response to his silence. “Teach might not be happy about it, but I can talk to her if you want to go back to your Lions.” 

“I’ve already told you my intentions.” His words are tight, but he reaches for a Blue Lion piece, one he thinks is supposed to be Dedue. “Stop blathering and pay attention. This is wrong.” He taps the piece to indicate its position — it is clear that Claude expects Dedue to stay at Dimitri’s side, similar to how Hubert will guard Edelgard. It’s an incorrect assumption, so Felix moves the Dedue piece further away from Dimitri, setting him where he believes Dedue will be — monitoring the location that Claude has chosen for himself. 

Claude watches the move, then picks up another piece, setting it not far behind his white pawn to provide cover. 

“You know,” he muses, “you might make a decent Golden Deer after all.” 

* * *

The Golden Deer win the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. 

Up until the moment of their win, Claude had been guarding himself against his growing belief in the professor. He knows she’s special — most, if not all, of the students share that sentiment, and felt as much even before the Sword of the Creator came into play — but in the aftermath of this difficult but satisfying battle, he feels warmer toward her. Cautiously so, but seeing the way she brought his tactics to life on that battlefield has him considering that he may want her fighting at his side for more than just school battles and questionable church missions. 

Of course, that could also be the lulling influence of too much food on the heel of victory, but given how well the houses came together to celebrate, and the way the Golden Deer seemed to shine with their victory — maybe he can allow himself this small, private sentiment. 

When everyone begins to disperse for the night, Claude steps outside to enjoy the cool night air and sees that Felix has similar intentions. He’s leaning on the stone overlooking the fishing pier. And, Claude thinks, he seems to be feeling similarly affected by the win and subsequent celebration, appearing relaxed. 

Against his better judgement — he had promised himself he would end this back-and-forth with Felix — Claude moves next to him, also leaning against the stone, following Felix’s attention toward the water. It’s dark, but there’s just enough light to glimmer along the surface. 

“You’ve got to admit,” he begins, voice soft, “it was a good battle.” 

“It was.” Felix’s voice is quiet, too. 

He feels warm toward Felix, too. During the battle, Felix had performed brilliantly. True to his word, he had accepted Claude’s tactics, despite the scheme involved, and had pushed up on Edelgard’s forces. He wounded Hubert, left him for the others, and then took Edelgard out with brutally focused stealth. He had fallen soon after, but with Edelgard out of the picture so early, her troops lost their focus, and the Golden Deer were able to bring them down. 

Claude had been on the other side of the field, unable to witness him in action, but it was a recurring theme among conversations that evening. It wasn’t only Claude who felt Felix had been crucial in securing the win — he had been unusually popular throughout the feast, and though clearly annoyed with all the attention, he had seemed more tolerant, too. 

All these overly sentimental feelings are a warning, however, that Claude should wrap up his night. It’s too easy to get swept away by victory, to forget his careful distance when everyone is riding the thrill of success. He knows he should go back inside, steel himself, and close the evening with analysis rather than emotion. He has already overstepped his own personal boundaries. 

He’s about to push off the stone, a parting on his lips, when Felix speaks. “You were right to tell them.” He doesn’t need to elaborate further. Claude knows that this is an admission that his plan had worked in their favor. That Edelgard saw him coming and underestimated him, because of the crucial information about Felix that Claude had shared with the Black Eagles. 

He doesn’t mean to do it, but it happens anyway. One moment Claude is standing next to Felix, then next he is leaning into him, lightly, arms only just touching — barely any contact at all, really, and maybe that’s why Claude’s mind allows him to justify it. Maybe that’s why Felix doesn’t pull away. 

“Maybe one day,” Claude says, voice just above a whisper, “you’ll realize I really do mean well.” 

Felix looks at him then, turns his attention entirely on Claude. “Maybe.” 

There's some doubt in his tone, but Claude can hear a little give in Felix’s voice, too. 

It’s a perfect moment: the quiet of the night, an aborning potential for trust, the feeling that Felix, with his unusual approach to strategy and his singular focus on becoming stronger, could become a friend, a partner, a potential ally in Claude’s fight ahead. 

It’s a perfect moment, and that is exactly why Claude needs to ruin it. The heavy, suffocating feeling from the other night returns, and Claude knows he has already gone too far with this. He played a game, took a risk, and now he stands to lose. He has to bail, because if he continues down this path, he will be the one at a disadvantage, open and vulnerable, and that can’t happen. He can’t afford himself that exposure — that weakness — and so he takes this perfect, calm evening and makes a move that will put an abrupt end to it before it is too late. 

He leans in and kisses Felix. 

The kiss is chaste, gentle, just a light brushing of lips that he allows to linger. Felix is still, so still, even his breath is held fast in his chest. _Little rabbit_, Claude thinks, _caught in the wyvern’s claws_. There is only one way for this to end. 

He reaches to touch Felix’s cheek, to push him even further toward the inevitable, and that prompts Felix into action. He grabs Claude’s wrist and pulls away from his lips. 

“What are you doing?” Felix demands, all teeth, all warning, grip firm. 

Claude smirks at him, like he has just proven a point. And he has. Not to Felix, but to himself. He’s stronger than this this small, budding emotion. He can keep his heart hard and his secrets protected. He can push people away. 

“What do you think I’m doing?” he keeps his tone light, playful, even flirty. 

Felix doesn’t need to state the obvious — that Claude has, from one moment to the next, gone from asking for a measure of trust to destroying the fragile potential. He can see the angry confusion in his face, even in the dark. Claude relishes it; anger is the wall that Felix can maintain for them both. 

“You sound like Sylvain.” There’s disgust in his tone now, which Claude accepts as familiar and safe. He releases Claude’s wrist, like he can’t stand to touch him any longer. 

“I’m insulted,” Claude mock-gasps. “I don’t go around kissing _everyone_, you know.” These words, too, are a ploy; he wants to make Felix flinch by bringing verbal attention to what just happened. He wants to drive the nail further into the coffin. 

Claude is banking on a big finish — a threat to his life, maybe, or at least a nice, hard shove. Something to solidify that this is a boundary he should never have crossed, to assure him that they will keep their distance from now on. 

He expects an end. 

But Felix doesn’t storm off or say anything scathing. He keeps looking at Claude, furious but focused, like he’s trying to solve a long-elusive puzzle and coming up short. 

“Go to bed.” 

Felix's words are laden with disappointment, but they are calm and steady. There is no eruption, no big finish. Felix watches him a moment longer, and then simply leaves him alone in the dark. 

Claude laughs, bitterly, because of course Felix didn't give him the reaction he wanted. That is, after all, how all of this started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not included in this chapter: Claude checking and rechecking all the trees to make sure Petra wasn't snooping on his napping spot before he started strategizing for the battle. 
> 
> Next time: Claude takes a nap for real and Felix makes a move of his own. 
> 
> As a side note, I have some stuff going on these next couple of weeks so my updates will be slower. I'm really excited about the next part, though, so I'll do my best to get it up soon!


	6. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude takes a nap for real. Felix makes a move of his own. Claude cleans up his mess by making an even bigger one.

Flipped onto his back, a lance at his throat, Felix glares up at Sylvain, who smiles down at him triumphantly. “You’re distracted,” he states, giving him a playful poke with the training lance. “I can tell.” 

He extends his hand, which Felix accepts, allowing Sylvain to help him to his feet. “That was a new move,” he replies, a mild protest against Sylvain’s observation. 

“It was,” Sylvain agrees. “But you could have countered it if you weren’t doing the whole,” he moves his lance up and down, vaguely gesturing toward Felix, “brooding thing.” 

“I’m not brooding.” He moves, then, sidestepping Sylvain before he can argue further. He raises his sword and swings, but Sylvain is quicker, dropping his lance to catch Felix’s foot just as Felix takes that crucial step forward. Felix trips, then tries to reclaim his balance and swing upward, but Sylvain catches his sword with his lance and shoves it back toward him. 

“Distracted,” Sylvain repeats between heavy breaths. 

Frustrated, Felix pushes back, bends low to free his sword and move to the side. Then he launches himself at Sylvain, his crest unintentionally activating as he raises his weapon and drives it downward. Sylvain holds up the lance in defense, and when the sword makes contact with it, the lance snaps in half. The force of the follow-through causes Felix to barrel into Sylvain and they both wind up on the floor, winded. 

“What was that?” Sylvain asks, trying to catch his breath. 

Felix doesn’t answer the question. He shoves himself off of the ground and away from Sylvain. “Are you getting up or what?” he asks, brushing loose strands of hair out of his face and grasping his sword again. 

Sylvain props himself up on his elbows, frowning at him. “Is this about Dimitri?” he asks. 

“You’re done then,” Felix decides for him. He puts the training sword away with the rest of the weapons and turns to leave. 

“Wait —“ He can hear Sylvain set the broken lance aside and jog up beside him. Sylvain puts a hand on Felix’s shoulder, which Felix promptly shrugs off. “What happened in Remire has everyone on edge, Felix. Even you. Even me. And you know, Dimitri is just —” 

“Losing it,” Felix interrupts. “You see it too.” He’s losing it, and the only one around him who has a chance at reining him in is Dedue, and Felix has no faith that Dedue will step in to do anything about it. He’d follow Dimitri along a trail of corpses before putting out a hand to stop him. 

“— having a hard time,” Sylvain qualifies. “We all are. That’s why the ball is just what we need.” 

“A ball is the last thing we need right now.” Felix doesn’t see it as anything other than a needless distraction. Something big is brewing — not only around them, but also within these walls, within _Dimitri_ — but all anyone can talk about is getting ready for the ball. 

“Why don’t we visit him tonight?” Sylvain suggests. “You, me, Ingrid. We’ll bring some snacks. Check up on him and make sure everything’s alright. It’s been a while since we’ve done something like that, anyway.” 

“Fine,” Felix answers. 

They part ways, Sylvain toward the dining hall, Felix toward the greenhouse. "Don't forget!" Sylvain calls out as he walks away. 

Annette is in the greenhouse, watering the plants. He watches her from the doorway as she sings a cheerful song, dancing from flower to flower. As usually happens when he watches Annette like this, he feels a little more relaxed. He would be loath to admit it, but he likes seeing that she, at least, still has her good cheer and optimism. It reminds him of the point of all he does — why he fights, why it’s so important to get stronger. It’s nice to know that there are still moments worth protecting. 

“Felix!” Annette exclaims in surprise when she turns around. “Are you watching me again?” 

“I could be here to water the plants,” he suggests. 

“I know you aren’t!” She huffs, stomping over to him with the watering can in hand. “Are you here to tease me because I missed our last tutoring session? I told you, I had to fill in for Mercedes at the stables.” 

“That’s not it.” She looks so flustered that he could almost smile at her. He wonders, in a deep part of his mind that he quickly snuffs out, if this is how Glenn felt toward him whenever he came running upset over something minor. 

He doesn’t smile, though, because he isn’t here to tease her today. “What do you think about joining the Golden Deer?” he asks. 

“What?” The good-natured frustration leaves her face and she frowns at Felix in surprise. “Oh, um. That seems...is everything okay?” 

“Why are you asking me that?” Felix asks, feeling a little offended by the question. “Is it so strange for me to want you in our class?” 

“No! Well, yes. Maybe a little. I’m sorry!” She puffs out her cheeks. “You look so serious. I mean, you usually look serious, but this seems different somehow.” She laughs, a little nervously. “Isn’t it a bit late in the year to switch classes?” 

“We could use you,” he insists. 

“I don’t know. I’d feel bad. What about Mercedes?” 

“She can come too." He hasn’t consulted with anyone else on this yet, but he can’t imagine either of them being denied. Both are skilled and would be assets to the Golden Deer. 

She looks genuinely troubled. Felix mentally chides himself for handling this poorly, thinking maybe he should have asked Ingrid to ask her, or left matters as they are. But he can’t stand the thought of Annette being subjected to Dimitri’s dwindling control. He doesn’t want her in the line of his fire. 

“Let me think about it.” She straightens her posture. “For now, though, shoo! Get out of here! I have to get back to work.” 

Felix allows her to chase him off. 

* * *

Felix hesitates. 

It isn’t like him, to struggle with an action, to feel unsure of his next step. He believes in commitment and follow-through — choosing the best approach and seeing it through until the end. He is resolved and focused, and he doesn’t let anything get in the way of that. 

And yet he hesitates. 

Twice, now, he has stood in front of Claude’s door with grim determination, ready to knock so he can broach the topic of student transfers with him, and twice he has decided against it and retreated to his room. It makes him angry every time — with Claude, but also with himself, for being so foolish. 

Since the night of the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, Felix has done his best not to think of Claude at all. Avoiding him has been surprisingly easy. Claude seems to have lost interest in him, his focus on other matters that keep him in the library even more than usual, while Felix has been training with his usual intensity. It’s a fine arrangement, and one that Felix would like to keep in place, now that he is free of Claude’s antics. 

But if he isn’t careful, his thoughts inevitably stray that way, and he finds himself trying to make sense of Claude’s actions. Everything that Claude does is weighed and measured, carefully tracked from action to each potential consequence. Felix had a sense of this before, but now having spent a good amount of time with him, he knows it to be true. Claude isn’t one to be swept up by a whim, which is one of the aspects of his personality that Felix has slowly come to begrudgingly appreciate, even if Claude does his best to make it seem otherwise with his behavior. 

He knows, then, that the kiss had been strategic in some way. His precarious relationship with Claude had been founded on battle, in a sense, an attempt to one-up each other until the other caved. The kiss had to be, for lack of a better way of understanding, a kind of attack — but Felix doesn’t understand what purpose it served. 

Worst of all, he’s bothered by the fact that Claude seems to have had his fill of their game and moved on from it. Felix should be glad to be rid of him, but his pride keeps him from severing himself from the situation. He considers himself a worthy opponent and doesn’t like being pushed aside, as though he’s been bested and the game is over. 

He only has one choice, then, and it is to make a move of his own, to put himself back in the game, to make Claude acknowledge that he will rise to his challenge regardless of his antics. Felix doesn’t accept failure; just like Claude, he has his sights on winning. 

When Felix finally knocks on his door, ready to see this through, no one answers. 

Claude has abandoned his “napping spot” now that the days are cooler, so Felix has some trouble finding him. In theory, he should wait until Claude returns, but now that he’s made his decision, Felix is driven by his determination. He has trouble letting it go and wants to see it through immediately. 

So he looks until he finds him in the empty Knight’s Hall, seated by the fire, slumped over a book. For once, it looks as though Claude is actually napping, rather than pretending he is going to nap — his eyes are closed and his breathing is steady. 

Felix walks over to him and gives him a hard nudge. 

It happens quickly. Claude wakes up with an instant surge of energy, jumping up from the seat and rounding on Felix so fast and unexpectedly, Felix doesn’t have the time to think before he’s shoved back, Claude producing a dagger from seemingly out of nowhere and holding it to his throat. A beat passes. Both of them move from confusion to realization — Felix’s surprise melting into cautious annoyance, Claude’s blind intent to defend himself giving way to a light but uncomfortable laugh. 

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s rude to wake someone up like that?” Claude asks, lowering the dagger, then turning away from Felix to make it disappear all over again. 

While Claude’s back is to him, Felix takes a moment to collect himself and shake off the lingering adrenaline. “Are you expecting someone in Garreg Mach to attack you?” 

“Asks the guy who won’t go anywhere without his sword.” Dagger hidden away, he faces Felix again, rubs his face and works on loosening the tension in his shoulders. “Did you need something? Or did you just want to prove that my reflexes are faster than yours?” 

Felix bristles. “They are not. Unlike you, I chose not to pull my own blade because I don’t make a habit of spilling friends’ blood.” 

“Since when are we friends?” Despite his words, Claude keeps his tone conversational. 

“Do you want me to pull my blade on you, then?” Felix asks, taking a step forward, hand moving to his hilt. This conversation has derailed before it even started, but he’s worked up now, more upset by Claude’s words than he should be. 

Claude regards him without any concern. “Only if you want to lose to me again.” 

“I haven’t lost to you yet,” Felix asserts, encroaching on Claude further. 

“Mm, you definitely have. In fact,” he yawns, “you’ve lost so many times, I’m bored of playing.” 

Close to him now, Felix glares into Claude’s guarded eyes. He reaches out to grab him by the shirt. Claude takes a breath but doesn’t pull away. 

It’s Felix’s move — forfeit the game, as Claude is pushing him to do, or prove to him that he will not back down. It’s one or the other. 

He pulls Claude forward in a jerking motion, no finesse in the way he closes the gap between them. Claude makes a soft sound in the back of his throat — surprise or concern, Felix doesn’t care — and then Felix is on him, pressing his lips against his with focused intensity, as though the kiss is an attack, as though his mouth is his blade. It’s a sloppy kiss, and when Felix parts his lips to fully commit to it, he can feel his teeth graze against Claude’s lips. 

In contrast, Claude is incredibly gentle, so much so that it begins to throw Felix off balance. His lips are slow to part, his tongue hesitant in the way it cautiously, tentatively brushes against Felix’s. He accepts the uncoordinated, disorganized kiss with a careful passivity that seems in direct opposition to his normal persona. 

It gives Felix the impression that he’s misunderstood something important; he senses a glimmer of information he previously failed to grasp. 

He feels it in the way Claude tenses when his hand relaxes, flat against his chest. The way he kisses Felix like Felix has just delivered a death blow, like Felix really has won this stupid and pointless back-and-forth game. The way he softly whines, yet again, in the back of his throat, like an animal caught by a predator, preparing to meet its end. 

Felix withdraws, enough to break the kiss but not their close proximity. He looks at Claude, whose eyes open hesitantly. 

He tries to smile at Felix. “What am I supposed to say to that?” he asks quietly. 

He doesn’t know what to say, either. He doesn’t know what the next step is supposed to be — should he deliver the final blow and finish off his opponent? Should he apologize to his house leader? Should he push him into fighting back, as he was supposed to, as they have been doing all this time? 

“Your face,” Claude laughs, breathily, without any mirth. 

Felix has no idea what his face looks like. 

But it doesn’t matter, because as soon as Claude says it, he kisses Felix again with that same, painful docility, so incredibly gentle that Felix doesn’t know what to do. He can’t remember the last time anyone dared to treat him with any degree of tenderness. It disorients him, takes him off familiar ground and puts him at a disadvantage, now, as he tries to respond in kind — tries to kiss Claude as though he is something more breakable than he could have guessed. 

Felix can’t even remember how to be gentle anymore, but he must do something right, because when he parts his lips again and, slowly this time, finds Claude’s tongue with his own, he can feel Claude’s chest, beneath his hand, relax as it loses some of its earlier tension. 

When they finally pull apart, Felix steps backward, looking away as quickly as he can, feeling warmth in his cheeks and frustration at himself for being so caught up in — in whatever this confusing mistake is supposed to be. Claude wipes a sleeve across his mouth, like he’s trying to erase any evidence of what happened. 

Claude reverts back to business, all his defenses back up, his armor back in place. He meets Felix’s eyes like nothing happened. He pretends. “Did you need something?” he asks. 

Felix has a harder time reverting to normal. It takes him a moment to look back at Claude. He tries to scowl, but his face is still warm and he knows he isn’t doing a good job of schooling his expression. 

He uses the abrupt change in subject as an anchor so he, too, can pretend this didn’t happen and instead focus on more important matters. His voice is off when he responds, but he pushes through it. “We need to recruit Annette and Mercedes.” 

“We do?” Claude asks, injecting an amusement into his tone as though the prior moment never happened at all. It's so easy for him, and that only makes Felix feel worse. 

“We could use another healer.” It’s a weak argument, but Felix doesn’t want to put his anxiety into words — not now, in the aftermath, when he can hardly face Claude. 

“That explains Mercedes,” Claude replies, his eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out what Felix is really requesting. 

“Weren’t you the one running around trying to pick up all the Blue Lions?” Felix asks. “What do you care, as long as it benefits you and your Golden Deer?” 

“_Our_ Golden Deer,” Claude corrects, undoubtedly to get further under Felix’s skin. “The problem is, I don’t really see how it benefits us, this late in the year. The Battle of the Eagle and Lion is already over.” 

“What about being a good leader? Helping students in need?” This is the closest that Felix has ever come to begging and he _hates_ it. He hates it even more because he’s subjugating himself to Claude — the same guy who somehow messed with his head enough to get Felix to kiss him, almost convincing him that he might, for a second, have liked it. 

But he thinks about Annette and he thinks about Dimitri and those shadows under his eyes, and he doesn't back down. 

“Are they in need?” Claude asks. He’s curious now, Felix can tell, beyond the usual mild interest he conveys when trapping Felix in a scheme. “What’s going on?” 

“Forget it,” Felix replies, because he’s unwilling to explain himself to Claude. Dimitri may be a beast poised to unleash himself on the world, but Felix will not betray him, just as he wouldn’t betray Claude’s plans for the Battle. This is none of Claude’s business — it’s Felix’s problem alone. “This was a mistake.” He’ll figure something else out. Maybe the professor will be open to the idea. 

“Wait.” Claude steps in front of him again, too close. Felix steps back, distrusting the proximity. “I’ll make a deal with you.” 

“Are you incapable of doing anything without gaining something in return?” Felix wants nothing more than to put an end to this conversation, but he waits, because as much as he hates to admit it, if anyone is capable of convincing Annette and Mercedes that joining the Golden Deer is the right thing to do, it’s Claude. 

“Not when it comes to you,” Claude replies, another smile accompanying the tease. Felix can feel his face warm all over again and it takes every ounce of his willpower not to look away. “I’ll recruit them if...” 

Felix waits. Claude allows him to hang in discomfort for a moment. 

Felix bites his tongue and refuses to beg any further. 

Finally, Claude finishes, “You save me a dance at the ball.” 

“No,” Felix replies. “I don’t dance.” He isn’t even planning on going to the ridiculous ball. It’s a waste of time and energy that should be spent on getting ready for the next dangerous mission that will be thrown their way. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t know how,” Claude teases. 

“Of course I know how.” Faerghus nobles may spend more time with a sword in their hand than they do entertaining extravagance, but they're still nobles. They know all the fancy dances and ball decorum. Felix in particular has always been a good dancer, given that prides himself on his footwork, both on and off the battlefield. “It’s just pointless. I have more important things to do with my time.” 

Claude clicks his tongue. “You really hate having fun, don’t you?” 

Felix glares at him. 

“One dance, and I promise I’ll make sure they join our class. I’ll handle Teach and everything. All you have to do is say yes.” 

Felix knows he’s walking into a trap of some kind. He knows that this is going to end badly. Claude isn’t even trying to hide the way his eyes harden, the levity leaving his smile. He knows he’s going to regret it. 

But he agrees, for the same reason he trains so hard, the same reason he refuses to be held down by his past — he agrees because he has something to protect. 

When he meets up with Ingrid and Sylvain later that evening and Dimitri turns down their visit, Felix knows he’s made the right decision. 

* * *

“What’s with you tonight?” Hilda asks, giving Claude a long look. “You seem extra...you tonight.” 

Claude laughs as he reaches over a table to grab a glass. “What does that even mean?” 

“I don’t know,” Hilda muses. “Usually you look like you’re slacking off, maybe trying to get into a little trouble, but tonight you seem _really_ easygoing. Almost like you’re planning something big.” 

“Careful,” Claude replies with one of his best smiles, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Or I might start to think you have me all figured out.” 

“No, no,” Hilda protests, waving her hand. “I’ve just decided I don’t want to know what you’re up to. I can already tell it'll be more effort than it’s worth to get involved.” 

“Smart girl.” Claude sips his drink. 

"Hardly," Hilda replies with a short laugh. “Well, good luck with your totally innocent night. I’m going to go make sure Marianne is having a good time.” 

He waves her off, then scans the crowd. Despite all the students in attendance, he picks Felix out immediately — back against the wall, glowering as he watches Sylvain talk a girl into dancing with him. Every so often, he steals a glance at Dimitri, and then looks away. Claude tries to piece it together with Felix’s strange request. 

Hilda was correct, of course. He’s planning something big, and more than that, he’s even more nonchalant than usual this evening specifically because he’s nervous about it. The last thing he wants is for anyone to see him as fidgety or anxious, so he is putting extra effort into appearing relaxed. 

He’s already recruited Annette and Mercedes in anticipation of this evening. He knows Felix is good for his word, and more than that, he wanted to make sure he made good on his end of the deal before he executed this plan. 

The source of his unrest folds his arms as a girl asks him to dance. Claude watches as Felix turns her down with what has to be a rude remark, because she looks to be on the verge of tears as she walks away, shoulders slumped. 

Felix has surprised him a lot since he first asked him to join the Golden Deer, but nothing has affected Claude as much as the way that Felix looked at him in the Knight’s Hall after unexpectedly kissing him, when Claude had been so sure he had managed to chase Felix away. In that moment, Claude realized that this isn’t a one-sided, stupid crush that could easily be stamped out and tossed away. 

It was written all over Felix’s face. He’s as entrenched as Claude in this mess, though Claude isn’t even sure Felix fully realizes it himself. He is positive, however, that Felix would deny it if asked, regardless of his feelings. 

So he’s doing this for them both. A favor, wrapped up as a betrayal, hand delivered. He will make Felix hate him, and then Claude can return to hiding his secrets — keeping his distance and focusing on his ambitions — and Felix can return to focusing on his training and fixing the vague Blue Lion problem to which he keeps alluding. 

What Felix has never realized, even after all this time, is that Claude considers himself as much as a pawn as anyone else he uses in his schemes. He will sacrifice his own piece if it means securing the win. 

He waits for a while, biding his time until everyone gets all those ridiculous noble dances out of the way, and then he finally approaches Felix. Felix, who is here just for him, who has waited through the entire evening for Claude to claim his end of the deal. 

He looks nice, Claude realizes. His hair is in a bun as it always is, but it's neater than usual, all strands tucked carefully away. There is a degree of effort put into the crispness of his dress and the refinement of body language. He absolutely looks the part of a distinguished noble, and Claude can’t help but entertain the thought that Felix did this for him. 

Then again, he probably did it more to prove a point than to look nice for him, but really, when it comes to Felix, aren’t those one in the same? 

“May I have this dance?” he asks, holding out a hand and smiling his best, most dazzling smile. He even goes a little above and beyond and winks at Felix. 

The brief flush in Felix’s cheeks doesn’t escape his notice, even though Felix does his best to scowl it away. “Do I have a choice?” he asks, taking his hand. 

Claude had meant to lead Felix to the dance floor, but Felix ends up leading him instead, clearly intent on being the one in control of the dance. That’s fine, Claude decides — he can take lead for the time being. It gives Claude the opportunity to scan the crowd as Felix pulls him along. Sylvain pauses in the middle of chatting with another girl to raise his eyebrows at Claude. Ingrid looks appropriately skeptical. Dimitri looks...jealous maybe? That would make sense with what little he’s gleaned from the Blue Lions. 

Felix pulls him close with a degree of confidence that Claude would find alluring if he were not trying to put an end to this. He knows that Felix hates this, that he’s well-aware he’s becoming a spectacle. And yet he fully commits, as he tends to do when he sets his mind to something. 

“Don’t step on my feet,” he warns Claude, voice low. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Claude replies. 

And then he’s swept away. 

Felix is, it turns out, a very good dancer. So good, he’s even able to mask that Claude has a little trouble with his footwork, the moves that Felix chooses being a little too close to a fancy noble dance for Claude’s tastes. Even when Claude nearly fumbles, Felix covers for him, and guides him through it. 

The whole thing is, Claude has to admit, a little magical. This is a side of Felix that no one gets to see — the way his hand rests on Claude’s hip, the way it migrates to the small of his back when he guides him into a dip, the way he stubbornly gazes into Claude’s eyes even though Claude knows he must want to look away, almost convincing Claude that he actually _wants_ to be right there with him. 

It leaves him breathless — in large part because dancing like this is tiring, but also because Claude has a nice look at the way things could be, if life were different for them both. If Felix weren’t so set on denying himself any degree of pleasure, and if Claude weren’t one secret away from being ostracized — or worse. 

“You’re better than I thought you would be,” Felix whispers to him as he dips him once more, leaning close to his ear. “Though you move like you learned to dance in the wild.” 

“Maybe I did,” Claude offers him, a final gift in the form of a hint that he knows Felix will overlook. “It’s my turn.” 

He shifts his hands and forces Felix to follow, now, as he sweeps him along in a looser, unrestrained dance — forgoing formality in favor of a quicker spin, a daring twirl. Felix keeps up with all of it, though Claude can tell he likes this way of dancing even less. His footing stays sure, even when Claude tries to surprise him. 

Then it is time for the big finish. Claude dips him, low enough that his final move won’t cause any significant damage, holding his weight in his arms, while Felix looks at him, so obviously waiting for the final blow. 

Claude kisses him for the crowd to see. Predictably, Felix freezes, caught in a compromising position that prevents him from pulling away, and yet unwilling to make a showy display of himself in front of everyone. Claude lingers long enough to rub it in — long enough to enjoy the way Felix surprises him one last time when he belatedly decides to part his lips in response, accepting the kiss despite the audience. 

Then Claude breaks the kiss to look at Felix, who’s wearing that expression all over again. The one that is surprised and angry — as though he wants nothing more in this moment to shove Claude away — but with that hint of something that betrays a deeper, more complicated interest. He looks as breathless as Claude feels, holding him up like this. 

And then he lets Felix go. 

A hush falls over the crowd as Felix falls backward, gracelessly, to the floor. He doesn’t have far to fall — Claude made sure of that — but it’s a breach of trust all the same. Felix had literally put himself in Claude’s hands, and Claude let him go. 

Felix glares up at him, but even with the resigned hatred that Claude sees in his expression — he knew, after all, that Claude had been planning something — he looks more hurt than anything else. 

Claude folds his hands behind his head in a guise of disinterest. “Sorry.” He really, truly is. “I was just so shocked by that kiss," he explains, as though Felix had been the one to initiate. "I'm afraid you're not my type." 

Before Felix can stand on his own, Dimitri steps in, moving past Claude to offer Felix a hand. He doesn’t even spare Claude a glance, not even to throw him a dirty look, as he tries to help Felix to his feet. 

“Don’t touch me,” Felix seethes, shoving away his hand. “This is your fault.” 

“What?” Dimitri asks, genuinely confused. “How could this —” 

But Felix is already trying to push himself through the murmuring onlookers. 

Dimitri finally turns to look at him then, looking a _lot_ angrier than Claude has ever seen him. It’s a little unsettling, actually. Claude thinks he can understand Felix’s request, now. 

Before Dimitri can say anything, Ingrid pauses in her pursuit of Felix to direct her attention to Claude. “That was cruel,” she tells him, and there’s an implied promise that he will hear more from her later. She then looks at Dimitri. “I bet he’s going to the training grounds.” 

“Yes. Let’s go,” Dimitri answers, abandoning the fury he was going to direct at Claude. They take off in Felix’s direction. 

Claude is about to slink off to wallow in what he has done, but Sylvain steps in front of him before he manages to leave. 

“Hey,” he says, a lot more calmly than Claude would have expected. 

“Hey,” Claude echoes. “Are you going to tell me I’m cruel, too?” 

“Nah,” Sylvain replies with a smile that’s almost certainly just as practiced as Claude’s. “What you did was stupid and mean, but I’m the king of stupid and mean mistakes.” He laughs a little, but it sounds more self-depreciating than it does amused. “And I know self-sabotage when I see it.” 

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Claude tells him, uncomfortable specifically because he does know what Sylvain is getting at. 

“I probably don’t know what I’m talking about,” Sylvain tells him. “What do I know, right? But just in case I do…” He pats Claude’s shoulder. “I hope it was worth it.” 

He steps out of Claude’s way to trail after Ingrid and Dimitri. 

Then it is done. No one else intercepts him. Claude is able to leave. 

So he goes to the Goddess Tower and talks to Teach about dreams and aspirations. He refocuses on his goals and wonders if Teach will stay by his side, despite who he is and the sacrifices he has made — despite the fact that Felix has always been right about him, from the beginning. He wonders if his classmates will show up to their five year reunion, come what may, even though he still has so much to learn about what it is to lead and trust — even though he still doesn’t know how to place his faith in others. 

He doesn’t think about Felix. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Claude regrets what he's done. He has been keeping something in his pocket; it might be time to pull it out.


	7. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix pushes too hard. Claude does some growing up. He reveals a scheme he's been keeping in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are references to a non-fatal but scary battle injury in this chapter.
> 
> A huge thank you to CarcinoArison for illustrating a scene from the last chapter! It's lovely so please check it out [here](https://twitter.com/CarcinoArison/status/1203488702158102528)!

As Sylvain leaves the ball to go in search of Felix and their well-meaning but unintentionally instigating friends, he can’t help but wonder _why_ — why _Claude_, of all people. 

It isn’t the first time he’s asked himself that question. Felix may not realize, but Sylvain has been privy to their strange little arrangement since a stormy night a few months back, when he decided to drop by Felix’s room and reached out to knock on his door, only to hear Claude’s muffled laugher and Felix’s nearly inaudible but obviously very annoyed reply. He had paid attention, after that, to the way that Felix refused to look at Claude and the way Claude always seemed to look at Felix. 

He hadn’t understood it then and he certainly doesn’t understand it now. Sylvain distrusts Claude specifically because he recognizes that Claude is fake — similar to the way that Sylvain consists of false flatteries and contrived projections of himself, Claude is made up of secrets and masks. The difference is that Claude’s persona is air-tight. Whereas Sylvain would drop the act when necessary, especially for Felix, Claude would rather hurt others — hurt _Felix_ — than allow his facade to crack. Tonight is proof of that. 

He’s dangerous, and he knows that Felix is smart enough to recognize that, so he doesn’t get _why_. 

It’s especially upsetting, he thinks as he walks toward the training grounds, because Felix feels so much. He can’t help but remember Felix as a kid, sobbing into his arms over something so minor and insignificant, and hiccupping as he tried to explain that he just couldn’t stop the tears — everything spilling over. Felix has changed outwardly since then, but inwardly, Sylvain knows he’s still the same. He still _feels_; it’s just that he now takes all his emotional energy, coats it in scathing words, and puts it into his blade. 

It’s what everyone had wanted him to do, back when they were younger — to be stronger, to be more like Glenn. Sylvain had told him there was no shame in crying sometimes, had confessed that he did it, too, when no one was looking, but when Felix stood before Glenn’s grave and Sylvain told him it was okay for him to let everything out, Felix had said, “He wouldn’t have wanted me to cry.” That had been the end of Felix’s tears. 

But he knows that Felix is hurting now, even if he may not have the tears to express his pain, and he knows there’s only one way that Felix is going to be able to release that tension. So whether or not he understands why Felix chooses to surround himself with people who wear masks and give him false smiles — Sylvain includes himself in that category, and Dimitri, too, given Felix’s concerns over Dimitri’s duality — he will go help pick up the pieces. 

And it’s a good thing he does, because when he gets to the training grounds, which are lit by the moon above and a few haphazardly placed torches, Felix is standing very close to Dimitri, who looks torn between worry and a simmering anger. Ingrid looks angry, too, but close to tears as well. It’s clear Felix has been lashing out, because Felix is in pain, and these two never know how to handle him at his worst. They want so badly to help, but they always say the wrong things. 

“We should just transfer back,” Ingrid is saying, trying to keep her composure. She reaches out to put a placating hand on Felix’s arm, but he shrugs her off. 

“You think I want to return to the boar? Look at him.” Felix says this while staring into Dimitri’s eyes. “The beast is breaking free.” 

Dimitri isn’t backing down this time, which is a first, and something about his body language puts Sylvain on edge. When Sylvain comes up behind Felix, he can see what Felix means — Dimitri's eyes betray his emotional state. 

“Are you going to fight me, boar?” 

“Felix,” Ingrid pleads, “I know you’re upset, but this isn’t helping anyone.” 

Dimitri’s words overlap with Ingrid’s. “I do not want to fight you.” Despite his statement, he's tense, clearly at his limit with Felix this evening. 

“Hey, now,” Sylvain interrupts. “Let’s all take a minute to cool down.” 

But Felix is wound too tightly, the damage of their discussion already done. He snaps. “Don't lie to me.” 

He shoves Dimitri. 

Dimitri would usually take this in stride — Felix is kinetic when he is emotional, they all know that. But Dimitri must be tired of being blamed for abstract transgressions, because this time, he reacts too strongly. From where Sylvain is standing, it looks like he intends to stop Felix — Dimitri initially raises his hand and puts it out, as though to prevent Felix from following through — but it goes horribly wrong. Instead of preventing the shove, he ends up pushing Felix back, hard enough for Felix to fall to the floor a second time that night; only this time, Felix has further to fall, and when he tries to catch himself, he lands wrong. Sylvain can see pain briefly crease his features as he comes down hard on his hand. 

“Stop this, both of you!” Ingrid scolds, but it’s unnecessary. Dimitri looks absolutely horrified at what has transpired. He murmurs Felix’s name, all the anger snuffed out of him, just like that. As though it wasn’t even there in the first place. 

“Your Highness,” Sylvain says slowly, stepping in front of him. “Let’s give Felix some space, okay?” 

He glances at Ingrid, who gets the hint and puts a hand on Dimitri’s back. “Come on, Your Highness,” she says, “Let’s go for a walk.” 

“I didn’t mean —” Dimitri tries to explain, brokenly. 

“I know,” Ingrid replies softly. “It was an accident.” 

As they leave, Sylvain turns to Felix who looks — worse. So much worse than when they left the ball. He looks surprised and betrayed all over again, like he never expected that Dimitri would push him back, or at least that he wouldn’t hurt him if he did. Which surprises Sylvain, in turn, because Felix had been goading him into it, and because he's been trying to tell anyone who will listen that Dimitri is dangerous. 

As Sylvain helps him up, Felix holds his injured wrist to his chest. It’s his sword hand, Sylvain realizes, which means that if they don’t find Manuela, Felix won’t be able to train away his inner turmoil. 

“I knew this would happen,” Felix mutters, and Sylvain isn’t sure if he means Dimitri’s outburst or Claude’s rejection, but it doesn’t matter. It all bleeds together, anyway. 

“Let’s go find Manuela,” he suggests. “If it’s an easy fix, I’ll spar with you.” Because that’s what Felix needs the most — not Dimitri’s apologies or Ingrid’s motherly tone. He needs to beat out everything he feels until he can reestablish his equilibrium. 

“Fine,” Felix replies, as though it isn’t exactly what he wants to do. 

They leave the training grounds and step out into the cold night. Sylvain says, “Claude’s an asshole,” even though he knows Felix won’t like hearing the night’s events verbalized. 

It needs to be said. 

“Don’t,” Felix replies, as Sylvain figured he would. 

“You need to hear it,” Sylvain argues. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way, Felix, you’re —” _Pure_, he wants to say. For all his prickly attitude and prowess on the battlefield, Felix is still untarnished by the same darkness that lingers over people like him and Claude — he’s straightforward and true to himself, and he deserves so much better. He doesn’t say that, though, because Felix would definitely kill him if he did. Instead, he says, “You deserve someone who will treat you right.” 

“It’s not like that.” Sylvain expects that response. What he doesn’t expect is the way Felix says it — no heat or argument in his tone. He doesn’t sound forlorn, but the lack of bite in his tone tells Sylvain it _is_ like that. 

Thinking about it makes Sylvain’s stomach clench. He wants to point out that Felix didn’t try to pull away from Claude, that he danced willingly and looked at Claude in a way that Sylvain has never seen him look at anyone before, but he bites his tongue, puts on a smile, and says, “Good. Forget him, then.” 

“It would be easier to forget if you stop talking about it,” Felix points out, but there’s still no argument in his tone. 

Sylvain wants to see Felix’s fire — he wants the scorn that exists as his baseline. He doesn’t want this subdued and hurt version of Felix. So he says, “You know, the easiest way to forget would be to find a couple girls to entertain us for the rest of the night...” 

And there it is: Felix’s disgust and annoyance, the dirty look he’s fond of giving Sylvain whenever Sylvain alludes to his philandering. Felix doesn’t reply, he just pulls ahead of Sylvain to try and leave him behind. 

“I was joking!” Sylvain jogs to catch up to him, hoping that this familiar arrangement helps Felix feel more like himself, if only in a small way. 

* * *

Claude does think about Felix. 

In theory, he shouldn’t have the time. Right after the ball, everything goes haywire in the worst ways possible. No one is gossiping about the strange “breakup” between Claude and Felix; they are too busy mourning a loss and preparing for an uncertain future. Claude ends up with a lot on his plate. He refocuses on the Golden Deer’s tactics and even acts as commander for a few practice battles, to take some of that work off Teach’s plate. In his free time, he delves into researching as much as he can about her powers. There’s no time to worry about Felix and how he might feel; there’s no room for regret. 

And yet, whenever he reaches a lull in his progress, or finds himself nodding off in the early hours of the morning, he thinks about Felix, sprawled on the dance floor, looking at Claude as though he had betrayed a trust that Felix shouldn’t have been harboring to begin with. He remembers Felix tentatively parting his lips for him, slowly kissing him back even though Claude was clearly trying to embarrass him. 

He thinks about how Teach placed Jeralt’s diary in his hands, even though Claude has given her very little reason to trust him with such important secrets — and even though he has spent most of this year being too afraid to truly trust her with his own. 

As he pours over the diary and loses sleep over his choices, Claude decides that needs to change. 

He’ll never be able to bare his secrets — that’s far too dangerous and would likely mean the end of his dreams, if not his life — and he will never be able to openly confess that his ability to rely on others has been twisted by a childhood colored by the cruelty of other people. But he can learn to have a little faith in others — in Teach and in the students who fight by his side. He can grow into a leader that others want to follow. 

Then, maybe, when it’s finally time for him to pursue his dreams, he won’t be alone. 

Maybe Teach will stand beside him. Maybe the Golden Deer will rise to his call. Maybe his Blue Lions will even decide that Claude is not as terrible of a leader as they’ve rightfully made him out to be. 

He wishes, selfishly, that he could talk to Teach about all of these things — he wishes he could find it in himself to submit a question to the counseling box: _How can a person who has always been hated for who he is learn to open his heart to others? How does one come to believe in friendship?_

He can’t ask those things, because Teach has enough going on, and those exact problems are what keep him from being able to ask anyone else. 

But he has to start somewhere, so he works on unraveling the diary and proving himself worthy of Teach’s secrets, and he tries to be a more effective commander on the field. He attempts to have more meaningful conversations, sharing vague but truthful stories with others when they try to open up to him. 

And he thinks about what he can do to make amends with Felix. 

He knows he can’t talk to him in the classroom — public conversations are off limits, given that Claude specifically used an audience to embarrass him in the past. He knows he wouldn’t be receptive to it, so he ignores Felix in class just as Felix ignores him, only stealing the occasional glance his way when he’s positive no one is looking. 

Initially, he lingers in all his usual haunts in hopes that Felix will eventually come around to speak with him. No matter what Claude has done in the past, Felix has always sought him out to make his next move. But even as he’s shivering in his furs one cold afternoon in front of his napping tree, he knows that Felix will not seek him out anymore. That had been the whole point of the incident at the ball — Claude had intended to push him too far, and he had been successful. 

Next, he goes to find Felix at the training grounds, but Ingrid happens to be leaving right at that moment, and she hauls him away by his arm and tells him to stay away not only from Felix, but also the training grounds as a whole, or she would see to it that he receives a lecture from her every single day until graduation. Claude absolutely believes her, and also believes he deserves her ire, so he accepts the tongue lashing with only minimal complaint. 

Right after he decides he will probably need a scheme to figure out how to get Felix to spend just a few moments in his presence, in private, Claude gets injured during what is supposed to be an easy mission routing bandits. 

Usually, Hilda is on the front lines, attracting enemies while Claude snipes them from further back. This time, however, the bandits converge on them out of a thick fog and he ends up fighting next to Hilda. He sees a mage target her and prepare an attack, and he reacts before his brain fully registers what he is doing, shoving her away (and man, is she heavy in all her armor) to take the brunt of the attack himself. 

When he wakes up in the infirmary, it’s to Hilda weeping at his bedside, calling him an idiot, telling him he’s supposed to be guy who runs from bandits. When he laughs (painfully, as he can still feel the burn of the dark magic along his ribs), she swats his arm and then takes his hand. 

“Now I have no choice but to work harder for you,” she says as she wipes her tears, a smile on her face despite the complaint in her words. 

It’s a defining moment within their relationship. 

It’s a defining moment for Claude, too. 

* * *

“That’s it,” Annette says, closing her book on Advanced Reason. “I have nothing left to teach you.” 

“That can’t be it,” Felix argues. There are a few weeks of school left. He isn’t ready to end this tutoring arrangement. 

“Felix,” Annette replies, drawing out his name, “You’re as good as I am, now! You’ll be able to sit for the Mortal Savant certification soon. You don’t need me anymore.” 

“What about the end of the tutoring song?” he asks. “You never finished it.” 

She blushes, embarrassed as she always becomes whenever Felix mentions her singing, even though she made up that very song to help motivate him with his studies. “You’ll get to hear the end _after_ you get your certification.” 

“If that’s the case,” he replies, standing, “I suppose I better study on my own.” 

“_Yes_,” Annette emphasizes. “And you’ll do great without me, you’ll see.” 

He knows he will. He just feels that his the time he spends with Annette is one of the only remaining highlights of the Academy — that, and his training. 

But she’s right, and she has her own certification exams to study for. So he nods and says goodbye and walks out into the cold night, heading toward the dining hall for some dinner. 

After gathering his meal, he glances around for Marianne, but she is already sitting with Raphael, so he takes a seat by himself instead. He has only managed one bite when Hilda takes a seat across from him. She doesn’t have a plate, so it’s clear that this is for business, not pleasure. 

“Felix! We haven’t talked in a while, have we?” she asks, leaning over the table. 

“We haven’t,” is his brusque reply. 

She’s undeterred by his tone. “Well, now’s as good of a time as any. How have you been?” 

“I’m trying to eat,” he tells her. “Not talk.” 

“Of course,” she replies with a wave of her hand. “Then how about you eat, I talk?” 

He glares at her and says nothing, which she takes as his leave to continue. 

“I consider you a friend, Felix. I’m not sure if you know that, or if you consider me a friend too, because you can be pretty rude sometimes, but I like you, and I think that deep down inside that prickly shell of yours, you feel the same about all of us, too.” 

Now Felix is really glaring at her, close to abandoning his dinner in favor of peace and quiet. This is a pointless conversation, and it makes him bristle. 

But Hilda keeps talking. “I hope you know that I would never ask you to do something that would hurt you. I care about you, just like I care about Marianne and Claude and even Lorenz.” 

“What's your point?” Felix gripes, trying to focus on his food instead of Hilda. “I don’t need to hear all this nonsense.” 

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I wanted to make sure you know how I feel before I get to my point.” She smiles at him, but takes a breath as though to gather courage for what she says next. “I’m calling in my favor. The big one.” 

“Leonie.” Felix can taste his words turn acidic. It’s true he still owes Hilda a favor for the Blue Lions' recruitment of Leonie, given that he hadn’t managed to take even a full day of weeding off her plate, but that was months ago. He had hoped it was a non-issue, this far along. 

“Yeah, that’s the one!” Hilda replies enthusiastically. 

“No,” Felix preemptively answers. “I know what you’re going to ask, and the answer is no.” He’s officially lost his appetite. He puts down his utensils and shoves back his plate. 

“It’s for you both,” Hilda tells him, her eyes never leaving his face. “You need this, too.” 

“I’m done with schemes.” He stands, wanting to end this conversation immediately. But Hilda stands, too, and worse than that, she takes his hand in hers to stop him from leaving. 

“It isn’t a scheme. He didn’t ask me to do this. I’m doing this because I want to. Please, Felix, just talk to him. Five minutes, at the training grounds, midnight tonight, alone. That’s all. Your debt will be paid, and if you want, I’ll never bother you again.” 

He wrenches his hand free from her grasp and begins walking away, without offering up any additional response. 

“I’m going to tell him to be there!” she calls out. 

Now in a horrible mood, Felix stalks out of the dining hall, dead set on avoiding the training grounds not only at midnight, but possibly for the full next day. Every moment since the ball, Felix has actively forced himself to move on from anything related to Claude — going so far as trying to give the professor that sword Claude gave him (it hadn’t worked out; the professor said she would give it right back to him before a battle, so he might as well keep it). 

He _knows_ that there’s a deeper, more complex story behind what Claude has done and if he really wants to, he can make some leaps in logic to come to some half-correct conclusion that pieces together everything — from the way that Claude has framed all their interactions with wagers and exchanges instead of uncomplicated conversations, to the way Claude reacted when kissed, to the way he looked as he let Felix fall to the floor as their dance ended — but he refuses. 

He’s officially done. He should have never let it get as far as he did in the first place. It was foolish, it interfered with his focus on his training, and it ended horribly. 

Now, Claude can no longer be considered an ally, Dimitri won’t even look at him — which he always knew would happen in the end, but the reality of it is still upsetting — and Felix just wants to earmark all of these stains on his time at the Academy as firmly in the past, so he can look forward to the future. He doesn’t believe in dwelling or wallowing — he just wants to move on. 

He storms off to his dorm and despite the fact that it’s only early evening. He rips out his hair tie, undresses, and then tries to sleep so that he can firmly not think about Claude sitting at the training grounds at a time of night when no one else will be around. 

He does not think about Claude waiting for him. 

But as soon as he closes his eyes, he remembers the sight of Claude unconscious on the battlefield, Hilda yelling for Mercedes and Marianne. He had watched them scramble to help, thinking about how Claude could be such an idiot about so many things, despite being so smart. As Marianne did her best to heal their leader, Felix had clenched his sword hilt in his hand, angry that Claude hadn't ordered him to fight by his side. If he had been able to cover him, Claude wouldn't have been injured; Felix would not have let it happen. Sylvain had to yell that a bandit was coming up from behind while Felix was staring at Claude’s body, wondering if he would make it. 

When he tries to move on from those thoughts, he ends up thinking about Hilda, who has been there for him, in her own way, since their very first conversation about class transfers. He thinks about how he intiailly assumed she would only help him if she stood to gain something, but how that had proven false over his months in the Golden Deer. 

He recounts all her ridiculous words about caring for him. 

Felix really can’t wait to graduate, because the more time he spends surrounded by idiots who get wrapped up in all sorts of unimportant issues, the more like them he becomes. 

They make him soft, in a world that requires him to be hard. 

* * *

It’s a cold night. Claude is only wearing a light cloak, so he alternates between rubbing his hands together and blowing into them as he sits waiting for Felix, who will not end up showing. 

It was kind of Hilda to try — Claude had been relieved that she had come up with a plan for the problem he decided to share with her after he was released from the infirmary — but it was a doomed effort. Looking up at the moon, Claude can tell that it’s well-past midnight. Felix will not be coming. 

He wraps his cloak tightly around himself and begins walking to the dorms, deciding that he will officially let the Felix situation go for now. It’s what he seems to want, and Claude has never really given Felix anything he’s wanted, at least not without a bunch of strings attached, so it can be a small act of atonement. He will leave him in peace. 

Just as he makes that decision, Felix walks toward him from the opposite direction. Claude is — well, surprised, of course. Felix always manages to surprise him. 

He looks relatively rumpled — his uniform is creased, his hair is up like usual but looks to be more hastily done, more strands escape from his bun, and he isn’t wearing a cloak. It looks like this was a last-minute decision. 

Claude has to fight the urge to laugh. It would definitely ruin any chance he has to let it slip, but it takes effort to hold it back, because he’s happy. He’s happy because he has a chance at all. 

When Felix sees Claude, he stops and immediately looks to the side, like he can’t stand to look at him. Claude has to approach him to be heard. 

“I didn’t think you would come,” Claude tells him, forgetting all about the cold and the weight of everything that’s been on his mind. He really wants to say, _I’m happy you’re here, I know I don’t deserve it, thank you for giving me a chance,_ but he knows that Felix won’t be receptive to such an emotional statement. He keeps it simple. 

“Five minutes,” Felix tells him. “Starting now.” 

“I don’t need five minutes,” Claude replies. He has something up his sleeve — of course he does, he _always_ has something up his sleeve, that will never change. “I have a simple proposal for you.” 

If it doesn’t work, then he knows the situation is beyond repair. 

Felix glances at him, then looks away again, almost immediately. Claude gets the impression that he’s trying to keep himself guarded by avoiding his gaze, but it’s a bigger tell than any emotion that Claude would be able to see in his eyes. “I’m done with your schemes. Nothing you say will make me change my mind.” 

Claude hopes that isn’t true. He hopes he’s learned enough about Felix over these last months to know the key to Felix’s prickly heart. “Spar with me.” 

He can tell Felix hadn’t expected that — another flicker of his attention, surprise gracing his face before spite takes its place again. “I hated sparring with you,” Felix tells him. 

It stings a little, because Claude considers their sparring match to be one of the best he’s experienced. It’s what caused him to take a much deeper interest in Felix. But he’s careful not to let that show, instead smiling and saying, “I know. That’s why we’ll do swords only.” 

Felix’s expression wavers, his face revealing open interest for one glaring moment. Claude feels his breath catch in his chest as he dares to hope. Then Felix tries to force it away with a scowl. 

“You don’t use swords.” 

“I _didn’t_ use swords. I’ve been training with Teach for a few months now.” It’s a scheme he’s been keeping in his pocket. He had intended, before all of this got out of hand, to surprise Felix by kicking his ass one day. Driven by the prospect of imposing another challenge on him, Claude wanted to make him rise to it with his signature anger and frustration. 

He had been falling for Felix hard enough to pick up a sword and train for _months_, and in retrospect, he should have realized what that meant at the time. 

Felix is finally staring at him, though by the look of him, he believes Claude has lost his mind. It’s a fair reaction. 

“My proposal is this: If I win, you have to listen to my apology. If I lose, I will never bother you again, with anything.” It’s a huge risk. Before training with Teach, Claude was mediocre with a sword at best. He has only taken the weapon seriously over the past few months, and even within that time, he could only dedicate so much of his extremely limited free time to secretly training. Felix eats, sleeps, and breathes his sword. 

But Claude is nimble and tricky. He has to believe that’s enough to give him a fighting chance. It’s his final play. 

“You swear it?” Felix asks. 

“I do.” Claude places his arm across his chest and bows, trying to communicate his sincerity. 

Felix still looks skeptical, though. “You were injured.” 

“Free to return to all normal activities,” Claude assures him. He pats his chest. “Healthy as a wyvern.” And he can’t help it — he allows a small, teasing smile to accompany those words. 

Still, Felix hesitates. “You won’t win.” 

“Ye of little faith! You haven’t even seen me in action.” Claude does his best to project all the confidence he doesn’t feel as he makes that statement. 

“If this is what you want,” Felix decides. He walks past Claude, onto the training grounds. 

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life,” Claude replies as he follows him. 

They take a few minutes to stretch. Claude feels the warm rush of adrenaline and nervousness; whereas his palms were cold before, they’re now sweaty. He subtly dries them on his clothes as he grabs their training swords. 

“I won’t hold back,” Felix warns him as he accepts his. 

“I wouldn’t want you to,” Claude tells him. Then, for good measure, perhaps pressing his luck, he adds, “I’ve never wanted that from you.” 

“Stop talking,” Felix replies, annoyed with the venture into personal territory. “Get ready.” 

They bow. 

Claude takes a breath, and then attacks. 

Despite saying he wouldn't hold back, Felix allows Claude to strike at him a couple of times before making a move of his own, assessing his ability as he blocks each hit. He must approve of what he sees, because the next time Claude attempts to attack, Felix parries hard enough to force Claude backwards a step. 

Then he launches an attack of his own, which Claude narrowly dodges before sidestepping out of the way. He runs backward several steps, to Felix’s annoyance. 

“You can’t run away,” he says between panting breaths. 

“I believe in using all my skills in battle,” Claude replies, equally winded, “including running.” 

It isn’t long before Felix is on him again — Felix is quick and nimble, too. Not as much as Claude, but enough that he can keep up on an even playing field. 

They continue like this for a while — Felix holds his own against Claude’s occasional tricky attempts to put some distance between them, while Claude successfully defends against Felix’s attacks. Claude knows he puts up a good fight and surprises Felix with a couple of complex combat arts. 

But it isn’t enough. Felix is the superior swordsman. Claude begins to tire, his strikes growing sloppier, while Felix continues to push him backwards until he’s poised for a final move. 

Claude readies himself for it, knowing he will not be able to effectively counter this time. He feels the weight of crushing defeat as Felix advances. Claude meets his eyes, schools his expression, and accepts his fate — this time, it really is the end. 

But Felix stops and tosses his sword at Claude’s feet. 

“Get better.” 

Claude looks at him; it’s his turn, now, to be openly surprised. “But —” 

The deal. He would have lost, fair and square. Claude doesn’t know what this is. 

No, he does know what this is, and it unnerves him, because it makes him want to hope, which reopens all the doors he thought were about to be permanently closed to him. He’s unprepared for this middle ground, this third route that didn’t factor into his original plan. 

“You heard me,” Felix tells him. 

He leaves, saying nothing more. 

Claude stares after him until his breathing evens out and he begins to feel cold again. 

Then he cleans up the training swords and makes the walk back to the dormitory alone. He thinks about where he can fit additional sword training into his schedule. 

He plans and he schemes, because Felix may not mince words, but that was as clear of an invitation of a rematch as Felix would be willing to provide. 

Claude will get better, and he will win next time. 

And then he’ll come clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude studying the sword just to hold his own against Felix has to be peak romance in Felix's world. 
> 
> Next time: A birthday and waylaid plans.


	8. Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, it's time for war.
> 
> Or:
> 
> "Claude does his research on How to Woo People Who Are Made Of Blades, Blood and Battle and Nothing Else." - troofless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains descriptions of the aftermath of a big battle.

Felix turns eighteen nine days before Fódlan is cast under the shadow of war. 

He hasn’t cared about his birthday in years, and he cares about it even less when he awakens to another cold morning of mounting tensions in the monastery. He goes through the same motions he does every morning: dresses in his academy uniform, puts up his hair, and polishes his sword. He decides to start his day with training in lieu of breakfast to avoid the well-meaning birthday wishes that will undoubtedly come his way. 

When he opens his door to execute that plan, he nearly steps on something set on the floor, directly in his path. He bends down to pick it up and looks it over. It’s a wooden rabbit, intricately carved, with a fierce look to it — something about the eyes, Felix decides, make it seem more formidable than a rabbit should appear. It looks like it wouldn’t go down easy when facing off with a predator. 

It takes Felix a moment to realize there’s a note on the floor, too, though he doesn’t recognize the handwriting. The letters, though legible, loop in a strange way that almost make the writing appear foreign, even though it isn’t. 

The message is simple: _Happy Birthday_

Felix makes a face at the gift; if he must be gifted, he prefers practical, useful presents, not trinkets. The carving will do nothing but take up space, especially once it’s time to pack up and leave the monastery. He initially intends to throw it out like he does with all the useless junk he’s accumulated throughout the time at the academy. 

But he looks at it again, along with the looping script of the note, and decides that he’ll hang on to it for now, at least until he finds out who left it for him. If nothing else, it is clear that care went into its creation. 

He steps back into his room to set it on his desk, and as he does, he realizes the head of the rabbit has shifted in his grip. Frowning, he tugs at it, and it comes loose, revealing a small dagger that had previously been hidden in the rabbit’s body. 

_That_ elicits a smile. Felix decides he’ll keep the rabbit after all. 

He sheaths the dagger and heads to the training grounds, his mood now slightly improved. 

This early in the morning, only knights should be on the training grounds, as most of the students will be either just waking up or eating breakfast. It turns out, however, that the professor has decided to make it an early morning as well, and she greets Felix with a training sword, giving him the birthday gift she knows he prefers most of all: a sparring match. 

Of course, when they finish, she invites him for tea and breakfast. Felix obliges her, because he’s always more inclined toward being social after a good match. Since it’s his birthday, she goes out of her way to offer him one of his favorite teas, Almyran Pine Needles, and engages him in all of his favorite discussion topics. Until, that is, the tea is nearly finished and class time is almost upon them. 

Then the professor transitions the conversation to talk about how much Felix has grown since becoming a Golden Deer. Whereas he initially struggled with the group dynamics, she explains, he now puts effort into following commands and fighting as a unit with his fellow students. She mentions that she’s noticed him spending time with Hilda and Marianne, the latter of whom she believes has grown more social specifically because Felix provided a safe space for her in the dining hall these past few months. She talks about Felix’s relationship with Annette, his progress in his Reason studies, and his increased interest in tactics. 

Felix scowls at his teacup throughout her compliments, saying nothing, letting her get it all out of her system and waiting for his moment to escape now that the conversation has ventured into personal territory. Then she mentions Claude and, unbidden, he raises his eyes. 

“I believe you have helped him a lot, too.” 

“I don’t have anything to do with him,” Felix snaps back. Qualifying his statement, he adds, “Anymore.” 

He thinks about Claude, fighting with everything he had to win their sparring match, and his chest tightens uncomfortably, just as it had when Claude revealed he had been practicing with a sword for _months_. 

“Exactly,” the professor replies, enigmatically. 

He thinks about the way Claude looked when he realized that he would lose, despite giving the match his all — remembers that fleeting expression of defeat before Claude put his guard up as he waited for the final strike. 

“Are we done?” Felix asks, standing without waiting for a response. 

He tries not to remember how he made a split-second decision to spare Claude, to encourage him to work harder, despite his better judgment — the way he gave him another chance, just as Claude had done for him months prior, to allow him to earn a sword in the same way Claude hopes to earn the right to apologize. 

“We can be,” the professor replies. 

Felix leaves her to clean up and goes to the Academy, where he is greeted by a classroom full of birthday wishes. Claude gives him a card from the Golden Deer, offers him a small, neutral smile, and says nothing beyond the expected, “Happy birthday from all of us.” 

Annette and Mercedes give him baked treats that they promise are savory, not sweet. 

Marianne shyly asks him if he’ll join her for lunch. 

Raphael butts in to say he’s going to join them for lunch, too. 

After the day is over, Felix trains with Sylvain, and then they have dinner with Ingrid. 

Dimitri carefully avoids him all day. 

Somehow, it feels like both the end and the beginning of something important, but Felix, preferring not to think of birthdays as significant, puts that thought out of his head. 

* * *

The next time Claude raises his sword in battle, it isn’t to earn his right to apologize. That plan gets sidelined after Edelgard’s big reveal plunges Fódlan toward war. Instead, he carries a sword with him to protect Garreg Mach alongside Teach and his fellow students. He doesn’t pull it out until his bow breaks, worn down from the lengthy battle and his numerous combat arts. His improved sword skill ends up being far more useful than anticipated, as he is able to hold his own once encroached upon by Edelgard’s forces. 

The battle is long and exhausting; it ends in absolute chaos. A monster, similar to a picture that Seteth once confiscated from Claude, soars through the sky and wreaks havoc. The monastery is destroyed and Teach disappears without a trace, despite the knights’ best efforts to locate her. Students, knights, and enemies alike end up spread out around the monastery and the surrounding areas. Some flee toward home, others fight off the remaining forces. Healers attempt to find the injured, and the injured try to crawl toward safety. It is by far the most gruesome battle of any that Claude has seen, and that includes his experiences with demonic beasts. 

All battles are horrifying, but this is slaughter for both sides. 

His Golden Deer are battered and exhausted. Many are injured, and Marianne and Mercedes are both overworked and running low on magic. Claude finds Ignatz and instructs him to head to the Officer’s Academy to see if any of the classrooms are usable. When he returns and says they are, Claude begins passing word to all of the remaining students to meet in the Golden Deer classroom. He and Hilda try to account for everyone in their class; to their relief, they are able to locate most of their fellow students. 

He then heads to the classroom with Hilda at his side, taking the walk to mentally prepare himself for rebuilding the students’ morale despite the awful results of this battle — despite the fact that they are entirely alone, now. 

Without Teach, someone must step up to be a leader, if only until everyone disperses toward their territories. Someone has to give the next — and final — command. 

It has to be him; this is, after all, why he is in Fódlan in the first place: to lead. Only, he had meant to lead toward peace, not to claw Fódlan out of the pit of war and destruction. 

“You’re frowning,” Hilda tells him as they near the classroom. 

“Only because we’re alone,” Claude replies, rubbing his eyes. “I’m almost ready.” 

She puts a hand on his arm and gives it a light squeeze. “You’ve got this.” 

He smiles at her — a tired but mostly genuine smile that he intends to be a silent thanks for her support — and then schools his expression as he walks into the classroom. All eyes fall on him. 

He gives a speech to all the terrified and unsure students that huddle among the desks. He is honest: no one can find Teach. Garreg Mach is no more. War has come. But he tries to offer hope, too: Teach would want them to carry on. Though this battle was difficult, the fact that they were able to survive should be considered a win. Now, they can return to their territories and plan their next steps. 

“Tomorrow,” he tells them, “We will return to our homes. We’ll take what supplies are left and we’ll travel in groups. But tonight, we are still students. We will spend one more night as the Golden Deer, together, here in this classroom.” 

Undoubtedly, many of the students are eager to leave immediately, but they’re all so worn down from fighting, Claude wants to afford them the opportunity to rest before their long journeys. He wants to bolster their spirits, if only a little, before they are thrown back into danger. 

“We’ll take turns on watch. Raphael and Lorenz, you’re up first.” Raphael nods to Claude and sets himself up outside the classroom. Lorenz, perhaps too tired to fuss, obeys without comment. Once they are in position, Claude takes a count of everyone in the classroom and realizes that three specific students are missing. 

He walks over to where Annette and Mercedes are laying out their cloaks. “Felix, Sylvain, and Ingrid aren’t here. Have you seen them?” 

Annette looks down at her hands. “No. Not since before the professor...” She trails off. 

“Me either,” Mercedes replies, her usual serene tone dull and exhausted. “I didn’t have time to look for them.” 

He nods, tells them to get some rest, and then questions some of the others. No one seems to know where the trio ended up after the chaos. 

“I’m going to see if I can find them,” he tells Hilda. “You’re in charge until I get back.” 

"Be careful,” she replies. “And don’t take too long.” 

He leaves the classroom and heads to the stables to look for a mount, but all have been set free. Many have fled, but a few wyverns and pegasi are still perched along the rubble. Thankfully, a few sharp whistles catches the attention of one of the wyverns and it swoops down to permit Claude to mount. He pats it, murmuring an apology for having no treat to spare in exchange for the work it is about to perform, and then mounts, urging it into the air. 

Flying allows Claude to cover a lot of ground quickly. He scans the entirety of the monastery grounds, grimly swooping down to check any bodies that are obscured by rubble and grime. Then he flies beyond the crumbling walls until he finally sees them — three armored students huddled close together. Ingrid’s pegasus rests on the ground, clearly too overworked to carry her any further, and Sylvain’s horse is nowhere to be seen. 

Claude guides his wyvern downward. Sylvain and Felix both pull their weapons in response to his approach, but relax once they identify him. Claude takes note of their conditions — Ingrid seems to be favoring her right leg. Sylvain’s hands are shaking as he leans on his lance and he has a cut across his chest, though at first glance it seems superficial. Felix looks uninjured but is clearly incredibly fatigued. He has a frenzied look in his eyes that reminds Claude of the couple times he kept Felix up too late playing their board game, when his patience had worn too thin and he teetered on the edge of an outburst — only this time, it’s amplified. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you three,” he says, keeping the relief he feels carefully removed from his tone. “What are you doing out here?” 

Felix directs his attention away from both Claude and the monastery. Sylvain looks at Felix. Ingrid answers for all of them, too weary to even try to level Claude with the glare she has kept reserved for him since the ball. “We can’t find His Highness.” 

Sylvain looks back at Claude. “Did you see him?” 

“No,” Claude replies. He hasn’t seen Dimitri in hours — since the monster took to the sky. “I covered the entire monastery looking for you. I didn’t see him anywhere.” 

At that, Felix begins walking away. 

“Where are you going?” Claude asks his back. 

“We have to find him,” Felix replies without facing him. 

Claude looks at Ingrid and Sylvain. They both looked resigned — they know this is a hopeless endeavor. And yet, neither of them seem intent on stopping the search. 

“Felix.” Claude dismounts and quickly crosses the distance between them, stepping in front of him. “It’s getting late. The sun’s going down. All three of you are exhausted. Ingrid and Sylvain are hurt. You can’t keep going.” 

Felix steps around him without a word and continues walking. 

Claude fights the desire to sigh in frustration at Felix’s characteristic but ill-timed stubborn behavior. He turns to his other two former Blue Lions and says, “Take the wyvern. It should be able to carry both of you. Go back to the Golden Deer classroom — everyone’s resting there for tonight. Annette still has a little healing magic left.” He doesn’t know if it’s enough for both of them — Annette has not yet earned her gremory certification and her Faith magic isn't as strong as her Reason magic — but Ingrid, at least, can get her leg healed. 

Neither of them move. Claude feels a surge of annoyance at their absolute lack of interest in listening to him; it isn’t the time to be fussy over the past. 

But he takes a breath and forces himself to exhibit patience and understanding as he says, “I know I’ve done a few stupid things as your class leader. Believe me, I’ve learned a few lessons. But no matter what you think of me, I hope you can recognize that the best thing for all of us right now is to go back to the classroom, where we can rest before we head back to our territories. Or look for lost princes.” 

He dons a smile that he knows won’t reach his eyes as he adds, “One more night as a Golden Deer, and then it’s over.” 

It’s Ingrid who ends up relenting first, with a nod. “He’s right. We can’t keep going like this.” 

Sylvain glances at Felix, who hasn’t stopped walking to listen to their conversation, then back at Claude. “You think he’s going to listen to you?” 

Claude has to bite back a snippy reply that would twist the question back around at Sylvain — he knows that Sylvain would have just as much trouble trying to wrangle Felix back to the classroom. He’s tired enough that it almost slips through, but he swallows it, keeps his smile on his face, and replies, “Only one way to find out.” 

Ingrid pets her exhausted pegasus and murmurs to it before she moves to unsteadily mount the wyvern. Wyverns fly differently from pegasi, but she doesn’t have too far to go; he is confident she can manage. 

Sylvain hesitates, still watching Claude. 

“You can babysit me if you really want to,” Claude tells him, keeping his tone light. “I don’t mind.” 

“Nah,” Sylvain replies. “Felix can handle you on his own.” 

“Sylvain,” Ingrid chides, though there’s no energy in her voice. “Come on.” 

Sylvain smiles at Claude, then, a plastered one of his own, before he finally mounts the wyvern. With a sarcastic salute toward Claude, Sylvain tells Ingrid he’s ready, and they take off into the sky. 

As soon as they are gone, Claude drops both his smile and his shoulders, ready to head back himself, but unable to do so without Felix in tow. He catches up with him and moves to cut off his path once more. 

“You know I’m right.” 

“You’re wrong,” Felix argues. “If I don’t find Dimitri —” He catches himself, silencing the rest of his statement, and shoves past Claude. 

But Claude grabs him, preventing him from going too far. “If you keep going, you’re going to run into Edelgard’s troops, and they'll kill you.” 

Felix tries to shove him off, but Claude keeps his grip firm to prove his point — Felix is so tired, he can’t even effectively break free from his grip. But Felix is stubborn, too, and so he tries again, wrenching even harder. This time, Claude willingly releases him, but only so he can pull out his sword and point it at Felix. 

“I wanted you to be in top fighting shape the next time we sparred, but if I have to prove that you’re too tired to continue by beating you right now, I will,” Claude tells him, voice even, even though he is also very tired and not looking forward to the prospect of fighting a pissed-off Felix into submission. 

Felix’s hand moves to his sword hilt. 

“Don’t forget,” Claude continues. “You told me that as long as you’re a Golden Deer, you’d be loyal. The Golden Deer aren't disbanding until tomorrow.” 

A lengthy silence passes between them, during which Felix seems to strongly consider pulling his sword and initiating the fight. Ultimately, however, he drops his hand. Claude sheaths his sword again. 

“Don’t touch me again.” Claude’s sure that Felix means for those words to sound like a threat, but they come out worn and defeated. Felix walks away from him again, but this time he heads toward the monastery. 

Claude follows several steps behind, giving Felix the space he undoubtedly needs. And truthfully, Claude appreciates the space, too. Facing off against Felix and friends had not been high on his to-do list for the aftermath of a battle that cost them so much. 

But at least he can now rest easy knowing that every one of his Golden Deer survived the battle and will remain safe for one more night. 

* * *

The morning is gray and uninviting, but the Golden Deer awaken in better spirits than the night before. As they go in search of breakfast and anything that could serve as supplies for their journeys, they talk about what may happen once they leave the monastery — who will travel with whom, how they will protect their territories against Edelgard, what Fódlan will look like when it is marred by war. None of the topics are pleasant, but they are at least discussed without the despair that colored talks the prior evening. Everyone has rested, so they can face what is to come with more energy than before. 

They manage to capture three horses and two wyverns, including the one Claude secured last night, which they give to the most capable riders. Claude opts to walk despite his skill in flying, because most of the Alliance members will be on foot and he wants to look out for them. Sylvain takes a horse. Ingrid plans on looking for her pegasus before they set out. 

Some goodbyes are tearful. Others are brief. Regardless of style, each one carries the weight of understanding that everything is going to be different going forward. The former Blue Lions will be on the other side of the country, with agendas that likely will be different from that of the Alliance. Within the Alliance, there will be power struggles and opposing views — Claude already knows to anticipate them, and so does Lorenz, judging by the subdued way he talks about seeing his father again. 

Though his grandfather still lives, Claude anticipates that much of this will fall on his shoulders. Even if that were a false assumption, he would take on the responsibility regardless, because there’s no way to push toward his dreams while in the middle of war. 

The former Blue Lions leave without fanfare, though Ingrid does take the time to tell Claude that he did the right thing in making them rest the prior night, which is more compliment than Claude expected. Mercedes and Annette wave to him as they head north with the group. 

Only Felix lingers. He regards Claude with his usual glare, but says nothing at first. 

There’s a lot Claude wants to say — and in truth, a lot he _should_ say — but he hasn’t yet earned his right to apologize, and he feels that Felix wouldn’t be receptive to it right now, anyway. He settles on saying, “Lucky you! You’ll be scheme free from now on.” He knows the delivery falls flat — none of them are lucky. This isn’t how the school year was supposed to end. 

Felix’s response is a harshly spoken, “Don’t die a needless death.” 

Claude replies, “I can honestly say death isn’t part of any of my plans.” 

“Keep your sword close,” Felix continues. “Arrows won’t save you from everything.” 

For a moment, Claude entertains the idea that Felix could be telling him to keep practicing with his sword in the event that they meet up again in the future; however, that’s so unlike Felix, he immediately discounts the thought. Even so, the urge to throw caution to the wind and just say what’s on his mind — what he would say, if Felix were trying to express more than gruff advice and a disdain toward archery — is so strong that Claude nearly allows his weakness. 

Instead, he says, “I have some advice, too. Have fun once in a while. I promise it won’t kill you.” 

Felix looks appropriately annoyed at that. Claude smiles — not a forced smile, necessarily, but certainly not a happy one. 

As Felix moves to leave, Claude calls out, “Hey,” and Felix pauses to listen. 

“If Teach is still out there, I bet she’ll be back for our reunion.” 

_Come back_ is what he’s trying to say. _Five years, no matter what happens. We promised._

“She’s gone,” is Felix’s pessimistic rejection of Claude’s faith in their professor. 

He leaves. 

“I believe in her,” Claude says as Felix disappears into the distance with the group of former Blue Lions. 

He chooses to believe in Felix, too. 

* * *

The trip to Faerghus is long and dangerous. Felix looks for signs of Dimitri long after he leaves the monastery, even forcing the group to take the occasional detour, only to find nothing. He and the others occasionally run into bandits and twice come across Imperial soldiers, but once they say they goodbyes to Ingrid and head deeper into Faerghus territory, the dangers of other people are quickly replaced by the dangers of frigid temperatures, as winter still has a hold over the northern territories. 

Felix and Sylvain part with Annette and Mercedes just before they reach Fraldarius territory, and then its just the two of them marching through ankle-deep snow, Sylvain leading the horse, which carries the gear and belongings they managed to scrounge up before leaving the monastery. They travel in silence as they mentally prepare for what is to come next. 

Snow may still cover the ground, but it will not be enough to keep the Imperial army away from Faerghus for long. 

His father and a small battalion meet them at the edge of the territory. “Felix,” his father greets him as he dismounts. “I'm glad to see you are safe.” The relief on his face makes it clear that he’s heard of what transpired at Garreg Mach. 

Felix doesn’t respond. He keeps walking. Sylvain stops to make polite conversation. 

“Where is His Highness?” his father asks. “Is he not with you?” 

Felix quickens his pace so he doesn’t have to hear Sylvain’s response. 

When they finally reach the Fraldarius manor, Felix puts the Academy out of his mind, refusing to reflect on it. The professor’s words about how much he’s grown hardly matter now, when she is missing and Faerghus is without its king-to-be, and when Felix’s attempts to carve his own path in life have led him right back here. It doesn’t matter who he ate lunch with, how well he fought with a group, who learned how to wield a sword for him — this is war. The very person who picked up a sword for his sake might turn that blade on him, one day. 

It was all for naught, and Felix knew it at the time, and yet he _still_ allowed himself to be lured by the idea of something more. 

No longer. His childhood is behind him. Survival and skill are all that matter. He will fight, and that is all. 

When Sylvain finds him later, unpacking in his room, Felix holds up the wooden rabbit, which he managed to grab from the dormitory along with a few personal items before leaving. “Do you know who gave this to me?” 

If Sylvain thinks it’s a strange question, he doesn’t let that show. He takes the rabbit, looks it over, then hands it back. “Someone who doesn’t know you very well, would be my guess. Why would anyone give you a rabbit?” 

Felix doesn’t mention the hidden dagger, because he knows where Sylvain’s mind will go with that information. There are only two people that could have been responsible for the gift — Dimitri, who has been known to hand out daggers as gifts in the past, or Claude, who never does anything in a straightforward manner. 

Two people from whom Felix must distance himself. Claude, because his allegiance is not to Faerghus but to the Alliance, which is a mess even in the best of times, and Dimitri, because he’s missing and either dead or consumed by the beast that lives inside him. Both options leave Felix no room for anything other than a cold, unsettling feeling that it is too late — that he must move on. 

“It’s junk,” Felix says, more to convince himself than Sylvain. 

“It’s nice and all. It just isn’t you.” 

Felix tosses it into the small pile of torn clothing and damaged armor he has created while sorting through his belongings. 

Sylvain puts a hand on his shoulder as though he wants to say something, but must decide against speaking for once, because he remains quiet. Felix allows his hand to linger there for a moment longer than he usually would before shrugging it off. He then resumes his work of sorting through his old belongings to make room for those that he will carry throughout the war.

He looks to the future, not the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude commissioned Gilbert to carve the rabbit dagger. Felix’s favorite tea really is Almyran Pine Needles (it's fate!). 
> 
> Next time: Five years later, a reunion (not at dawn).
> 
> We have officially made it to the time skip! I am very excited to have reached this point — we should be a little over halfway done (if I don’t change my outline too much as the second half develops) and now we’ll really be getting into the nitty gritty of character and relationship development.
> 
> At the risk of sounding sappy, I want to thank all of you who have taken the time to read this fic and enjoy this ship alongside me. When I first started writing, I didn’t think I’d have very many readers, since Claude/Felix is such a rare pair, so I’m beyond thankful for your ongoing readership. I’m honestly humbled by all of your comments and kudos — thank you so much for taking the time to leave those. (And thank you to all the silent readers who made it this far, too!)
> 
> I hope you continue to enjoy the fic as we move into the second half. <3


	9. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion (not at dawn).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going forward there will be spoilers for Verdant Wind.

Less the rescue.  
More, always, the ache  
toward it.  
\- Carl Phillips, "Hymn"

When Felix was younger, long before the series of tragedies that mapped the trajectory of his life, he, like any Faerghus child, would play war with anyone who would humor him. He played with Glenn until his brother grew too old and busy for such things. Then he turned to Sylvain and Dimitri, and even roped in Ingrid whenever he could. They would tussle and slap each other with training swords until, inevitably, one of them would upset Felix and he would run off crying, as he tended to do back then. 

Once, he cried because Dimitri decided, mid-battle, that he didn’t want to play anymore. Sylvain had tried to comfort him by saying they could keep playing, but Dimitri was the commander; they couldn’t have a war without a _leader_. 

It was Ingrid who found him later, huddled against a tree, sobbing into his knees as he wondered why Dimitri had to be so difficult, why he couldn’t just finish the game. She sat beside him and put an arm around him. He didn’t push her away, because he wanted someone to tell him it was okay, that Dimitri was just being mean, that they could still play. 

“Maybe we can find something else to fight for,” she suggested, “instead of Dimitri.” 

He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of his tears. “Like what?” 

She hummed, thoughtfully, then asked, “What’s important to you, Felix?” 

_Dimitri_, his unhelpful mind supplied. _Glenn._

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, resting his forehead against his knees. 

“Sure you do,” she replied. “What’s something you really, really like?” 

Felix felt like he didn’t like much of anything in that moment, which is probably why his brain supplied a stupid, unimportant answer instead of something tough and cool. “I like that cat that’s been hanging around the castle.” 

“Perfect!” Ingrid got to her feet and yanked Felix up with her. “Then we will fight for the cat!” 

"That’s stupid,” Felix told her. 

“If you don’t fight for the cat, I’m going to scare it away.” She began running toward the training swords they had left behind. 

“You wouldn’t!” Felix had yelled after her, running with everything he had to get his sword, too. 

“You better stop me!” 

Ingrid had given him a new purpose — a reason to keep fighting. 

* * *

Now, years later, Ingrid stands in his tent as he fights a very real war that Dimitri left mid-way through, albeit not by choice. He fights for a kingdom that has no king and for a cause that is doomed. His men are tired, his family’s coffers are nearly empty, and yet his father keeps urging them onward and onward, until they all suffer the same fate as Dimitri: dead at the hands of the Empire, their lands overtaken. He fights, because it is the right thing to do, because they have to protect what little they have left — but he is grasping at purpose. There is no future here. 

Ingrid hugs him. It’s the first time anyone has come close to him without a weapon in hand in months and it makes him tense, but he doesn’t push her away. 

After the initial greetings and exchanging of information pertaining to their lands, Ingrid announces, “I’m going to Garreg Mach.” 

“Why?” Felix asks, though of course he knows exactly why. 

“Because we promised.” Even now, in a tent on a losing battlefield, she holds fast to her ideals. 

“We’re fighting a war.” 

“So are they.” She means their former classmates. She means — 

“You can’t believe that going there will change anything.” 

She stands a little straighter, head held high, like she used to whenever she was getting ready to lecture him. “Word is the Alliance is still united. If that’s true, then he’s doing something right. With everything they say about him, he must have a plan.” 

Of course he has a plan. That is all he ever has, plans and schemes. Felix doesn’t trust that the Alliance is truly united against the Empire, and he certainly doesn’t believe that returning for a school reunion is going to make a difference in this war. 

He is about to say as much, but then Ingrid continues. “There’s still so much worth fighting for, Felix. Just not here. Not anymore.” She smiles, then, the sad and tired smile of someone who has been through too much in five years. “I’m following my heart.” 

“To Garreg Mach.” His tone is flat. 

“Yes. Will you come?” 

A country with no king has no future, and Felix never planned to blindly follow the orders of men both living and dead to his own death. Better to take a chance elsewhere, even if that chance presents itself in the form of a school reunion and an Alliance leader who is still a schemer. 

So Felix goes with Ingrid to retrieve Sylvain, and together they go to Garreg Mach in search of new purpose. 

* * *

They miss the big reunion. 

Luck seems to be against them the entire trip to Garreg Mach, from a bout of bad weather that slows them down to run-ins with bandits that become more frequent as they near their destination. They arrive days late, battered and tired, their morale low. Finding the monastery in shambles does little to boost their spirits. 

By the time they enter the monastery, it’s late and only the gatekeeper is there to greet them. He fills them in a few topics — the professor’s return, the monastery cleanup, the return of the Knights — and then explains that the dormitories are in use again. 

“You’ll need to do some cleaning before you sleep in your old rooms,” he tells them cheerfully. 

“I’m sleeping in the infirmary tonight,” Sylvain decides as they leave the gatekeeper to bring their mounts to the stables. “I need to see someone about this, anyway.” He gestures to the staunched stab wound in his shoulder. It has stopped bleeding thanks to the limited amount of Faith magic Felix forced himself to learn after the war came to Faerghus, but it needs expert attention. 

“We all should,” Ingrid agrees. “We can start cleaning tomorrow.” 

It’s a good idea, as none of them have it in them to begin a big task so fresh off of the road, but Felix has been with them every moment since setting out. He wants some time to unwind alone. “Go ahead. I’m going to take a look at the training grounds.” 

“Really? Now?” Sylvain asks. 

“I won’t have time tomorrow.” He assumes that their first full day back will be busy. Not only do they have to clean out their old dorm rooms, but they will need to be filled in on everything they missed. 

“I’m not waiting up,” Sylvain tells him. 

“Me either,” Ingrid adds. “I’m exhausted.” 

They part ways and Felix heads for the training grounds. 

Felix isn’t one for nostalgia, but even he has to admit that walking onto the training grounds after five years comes with a certain emotional weight attached to it. He spent many hours here in the past, and it seems he will be spending many more here in the future. He’s relieved it still looks to be in good shape, at least as far as he can tell in the dim torch lighting — either untouched by destruction or thoroughly cleaned up prior to their arrival — and he’s tempted to take out his sword despite his fatigue. 

What he doesn’t expect as he leans against the door, taking in the familiarity, is for Claude von Riegan to step out of the shadows and stand before him. 

“You came after all,” Claude says, smiling. He leans forward to get a better look at Felix. “Nice haircut.” 

Felix straightens, fighting the urge to pull out his sword out of sheer annoyance at being startled during a moment of weakness. “What are you doing here?” 

Claude looks older, his face more mature, that beard along his jawline giving him an authoritative aura, as though he’s more than a few months older than his present company. Despite assuming a massive responsibility, time has been good to him. He’s broader and carries himself as though there is no weight upon his shoulders at all. If Felix felt like being entirely honest in his perceptions, he would use the term _stately_ to describe how Claude seems untouched by his burdens. 

Somehow, though, even with the changes that time has graced his features, that smile looks the same. 

Felix doesn’t know how that makes him feel. It’s too soon for this; he wanted to be well-rested before facing Claude. 

“In the monastery? Turning the tide of the war.” His light, playful tone hasn’t changed much over the years, either. “Didn’t you hear? Teach is back.” 

He meant on the training grounds, at this specific moment, when Felix is unprepared for this reunion. “I heard,” is all he says. 

He had written the professor off as dead after their final battle because his own loss had taught him not to dwell or hold fast to foolish hopes; that same logic is why he doesn’t cling to the idea that Dimitri is still out there somewhere, as his father does. But despite his approach to handling the presumed dead, he isn’t surprised to hear about the professor. If anyone could miraculously turn up five years after a supposed death, it would be her. 

“You’re tired,” Claude says abruptly. His eyes drop to Felix’s hand, the back of which boasts a cut, having been nicked by a bandit’s sword shortly before their arrival. His glove is torn from the attack and does little to hide the dried blood. “And hurt.” 

“It’s a scratch,” Felix replies, glancing down at his hand. It isn’t nearly serious enough for a potion, let alone a healer. 

“A scratch still needs to be cleaned,” Claude states. “We can catch up tomorrow. For now, let’s get that fixed up.” 

He walks through the door. Felix hesitates; had he known Claude would be out skulking, he would have gone with Ingrid and Sylvain to the infirmary. But he chose to come to the monastery, and going by everything the gatekeeper told him, he would be here for a long time, under Claude’s leadership _again_, so he will make an effort to be civil. 

He follows Claude to the dormitory and up the stairs, all the way to Claude’s old room, in silence. Claude gestures him inside. 

Felix has only been in Claude’s room once before, years ago, but the room before him matches the one in his vague memory. There are still books everywhere, the room draped in disarray just as it had been all those years ago. This time, however, his desk is covered with correspondence and reports, rather than class notes. 

“Have a seat,” Claude tells him while he rummages in a desk drawer for the supplies he keeps there. Old habits must die hard, because from what Felix can see of the drawer, Claude still keeps vulneraries in his room as he had years ago, back when Felix injured his shoulder training. 

Felix sits on the chair and removes his gloves as Claude finds his tools: a cloth, a bandage, and a waterskin. Claude then removes his own gloves, wets the cloth, and takes Felix’s hand. The skin of his fingers are calloused and rough against Felix’s — the wear pattern on Felix’s hand is different, opposite of Claude’s in a sense, concentrated between his thumb and index finger and crowning the top of his palm. 

“This might sting,” Claude warns. 

Felix gives him an annoyed look — this is far from his first experience with having a wound cleaned — and then Claude presses the cloth against the cut, firmly dabbing away the grime. It does sting, but it’s hardly unbearable. Felix is more focused on the hand that holds his, gentle in contrast to the one that scrubs at old blood. 

“Your room’s ready, by the way,” Claude says as he works, eyes on the cut rather than looking at Felix. “I asked Raphael and Lysithea to clean it out for you.” 

“Why?” Felix asks. “You didn’t know I was coming.” 

“True, I couldn’t be sure.” Now Claude looks up at him. “But I was right about Teach coming back, so I thought my chances were good.” 

“You haven’t changed at all, have you?” Felix asks, his tone annoyed but quiet, empty of heat. Claude’s nonchalant arrogance — the fact that he just assumed Felix would drop everything to return to fight under him — gets under his skin and reignites old, long forgotten annoyances. 

Especially because he was correct. 

Claude drops his eyes, once again focusing on cleaning the wound. His fingers do not falter. “Maybe you’re the one who hasn’t changed,” he counters, “if you’re judging me based off of one conversation.” 

Claude sets the cloth on the desk and reaches for the bandage. “I don’t want to argue,” he continues, before Felix can deliver another accusatory comment. He begins wrapping Felix’s hand with precise placement, careful to fully cover the cut. “I’m happy you’re here. We can use your skills in the fight ahead.” 

“It’s the same story as before,” Felix says, pulling back his hand before Claude can finish tucking away the end of the bandage. He finishes it himself, sloppily shoving the end into the rest. “Recruit to win, and assume that everyone will follow you no matter what it costs them.” Just like when he was leader of the Golden Deer; just like with the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. 

“I’m being honest with you,” Claude tells him, tone even and unmoved. “I _am_ —” 

“I’m not here for you,” Felix interrupts, standing and grabbing his gloves. “I’m not here because I believe in what you’re doing. I’m here because Faerghus has no future, and I want to fight. That’s all.” 

There was a time when Felix’s biting comments would make Claude respond with a looseness in his body language, an inviting way of handling words that hit close to home. Now, Felix sees none of that. Claude remains steady, unaffected. Either he has learned of his tells, or Felix no longer knows how to affect him. 

“Everyone has their reasons.” Claude walks over to the door and opens it, effectively kicking Felix out of his room. “Good night.” 

Felix leaves and spends the night in the infirmary with Ingrid and Sylvain. 

* * *

When Claude was younger, he, like any Almyran child, would love to play warriors with anyone who would humor him. Often, no one wanted to humor him — most of the other kids didn’t like him, he had no siblings, and his father was too busy to play. Every once in a while, though, he’d manage to make a temporary friend and they’d play for a while before, inevitably, it came to an end. 

One such friend was a year younger than him and seemingly immune to the impact that being friendly with Claude had on his social life. He always wanted to be the king in their games. Claude thought he should get to be king sometimes, because his father was the _real_ king, but he wanted to keep his friend, so he always played the warrior without complaining. 

One day, in the middle of their game, a group of older kids found them and started saying cruel things to them. In that moment, Claude’s friend seemed to grow socially aware; he went from laughing at Claude’s attempts to swing a rock like an axe to slinging insults like the rest. 

Compared to the other forms of hatred that would be thrown his way over the years, this betrayal was small and harmless; for Claude, however, it would be among the worst for a long time, because he had really liked having what he believed was a true friend. 

He didn’t cry, though. He had already learned by then that crying made him seem weak, which made everything worse. He merely picked up his pretend axe and walked away, crowning himself a king without the loyalty of any warriors, and finishing the game by himself. 

* * *

War changes people. Claude knew this to be a fact before this war began. Even in Almyra, where fighting is a way of life, people come back changed after harrowing experiences on the battlefield. War has a way of getting into your blood; it becomes who you are, how you think, and the way you plan. 

Contrary to Felix’s judgements, Claude is not the same person he was before he came to lead the Alliance. He will not be the same person after this war is over, either. This war is in him as much as it is everyone else stationed in Garreg Mach. Just because he maintains a jovial demeanor and pushes forward toward action doesn’t mean he doesn’t sit and think long and hard about every decision he makes. It doesn’t mean he has no regrets or fears for the future. 

It doesn’t mean he takes things for granted. 

Felix has been changed by the war — Claude can see that already. He’s harder, but in a quieter way, as though the fire inside of him burned down into ash and calcified over time. He wonders, idly, as he watches Felix enter the dining hall to reunite with his former classmates, if this is the version of Felix that exists without Dimitri. 

Regardless of anything that Felix had to say on the topic back when they were enrolled in the Academy, loyalty is one of his strongest qualities. He was difficult to recruit, he never betrayed Dimitri’s secrets, and during their last battle together, Felix wanted nothing more than to scour Garreg Mach and beyond for the then-missing prince. 

And he’s here now, regardless of his reasons. He came back to his pack, as Felix always does. 

That loyalty may not extend to Claude specifically, but that's fine. It has to be, because Claude’s focus and attention cannot be on Felix, nor the other former Blue Lions. He has a war to fight and win, and they are here to help of their own volition. They all must move forward from there. 

“Felix!” Hilda exclaims, running over and throwing her arms around him, to Felix’s apparent annoyance. He tenses and doesn’t hug back, but Hilda is undeterred. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Marianne says quietly while Hilda turns to hug Sylvain and Ingrid once they, too, step into the hall. “I thought about writing, but...” 

“I _did_ write,” Hilda points out, pulling away from Ingrid to level Felix with an accusatory stare. “Twice! Which is a lot for me, I’ll have you know. You didn’t even reply.” 

“I was busy fighting a war,” Felix responds. 

“So was Sylvain and he replied. That’s the only reason I knew you were still alive!” 

Felix glares at Sylvain, who shrugs innocently. “How could I ignore such a nice letter?” 

Before Felix can answer, Raphael walks over and puts an arm around his shoulders. Felix stiffens under the contact and attempts to pull back, but Raphael holds strong. “It doesn’t matter if you didn’t write, because you’re here now. Let’s celebrate with breakfast! Then we can train like old times!” 

“Fine,” Hilda relents. “I’ll let him off the hook for now.” 

“Ingrid!” Annette calls as she enters the dining hall. Mercedes is with her. “Sylvain! Felix! You made it!” 

“I knew you would come,” Mercedes adds happily. “It’s so good to see you three again.” 

They converge as a group on the dining hall line, the trio integrated into the group as though they never left. 

Hilda looks over to Claude. “You coming, Mister Leader Man?” 

Surprisingly, it’s Sylvain who voices encouragement. “Better hurry before Raphael takes your share.” He meets Claude’s eyes as he says it, the statement delivered with more weight than the words themselves let on, as though clearing the stale air from five years prior. 

“I wouldn’t take his share! Claude needs to eat!” Raphael protests. “You can’t lead us without a nice meal in your belly.” 

Maybe their loyalty is less to Claude than it is to Teach. Maybe they're all here because Garreg Mach is everyone's last attempt to fight for what matters. Maybe it has nothing to do with loyalty or Claude at all. 

But when Ingrid and Felix both look at him with impatience as he takes his time to respond, when Lorenz sighs and Ignatz gestures him over — 

Claude thinks it doesn't matter. This is enough. 

He joins them and they eat together as a group. 

* * *

They move forward. Claude unveils the Crest of Flames banner and they fight under it to protect Garreg Mach. They tackle the issue of reinforcements and come up with a plan to contact Judith. Claude has a few heart-to-hearts with Teach about the future of Fódlan, and slowly, everything begins to come together. 

Claude is in the Cardinal’s Room following a war council meeting, reviewing correspondence — nothing from Judith yet — when Felix enters. In addition to the two swords he has taken to wearing in his belt, he also carries one in his hand. Likely, Claude assumes, coming fresh from the training grounds. 

“We need supplies,” Felix tells him without joining him at the table. 

“That’s been the topic of the day,” Claude replies. “We’re working on it.” 

That answer isn’t enough for Felix. “We have no whetstones and our supply of oil is running low.” 

Claude looks up from the letter in his hand to take in Felix’s expression. It’s set in determination, so Claude sets the letter down and gives him his full attention, lest this conversation turn sour quickly. “We already have a plan in the works that should get us more supplies by the end of the month.” 

“We can’t wait that long. Or do you intend to send your people out to battle with dull, rusted blades that will break on first hit?” 

“We have to make do.” Everyone is stretched thin, food is being rationed, and no one has the coin to convince merchants to come this way. Their only option is Judith. 

“Have you been to the armory?” Felix asks. “Have you seen the condition of the swords and axes that your people are fighting with?” 

Claude resists the desire to sigh, instead opting to calmly lean back in his chair. He understands that this is an issue, but being berated by Felix isn’t going to change the situation. “What would you have me do?” he asks. 

“I have a contact,” Felix explains. “A merchant who sold supplies to my father. He only cares about being paid. He could bring us enough to carry us through the next battle.” 

“And how will we pay him?” Claude asks. He appreciates Felix’s concern. In fact, he’s glad that Felix hasn’t lost that potential for taking charge and thinking outside the box — using a Fraldarius contact could work without having any negative effects on the Alliance. However, it doesn’t change the fact that they have no money to spare. 

Felix anticipates this question. “There are many relics here that would fetch a nice sum.” 

“No,” Claude replies instantly. “That’s out of the question. Everything we are doing hinges upon having the church’s support. We can’t just sell off their relics.” 

Felix looks disappointed, but unsurprised. He knew this would be the answer, Claude can tell, but he asked anyway. Which means he has another solution in mind. Claude can feel his interest stirring — that same interest he had back when Felix correctly identified the Death Knight. Though he may label himself as a fighter, Felix is more of a thinker than he realizes. That conclusion is what led Claude to talk him into playing those board games with him back then. It’s what makes him sit forward, now, in anticipation. 

Felix sets the sword he’s holding down on the table in front of Claude. “He will accept this in trade.” 

Claude picks up the sword and unsheathes it. He recognizes it as a ceremonial sword, one that could fetch a decent amount of money, or at least a good supply of whetstones and sword oil. “Where did you get this?” 

“The professor gave it to me back when we were enrolled here. I had it stored. The bandits must have missed it.” 

Claude sheathes the sword and sets it down on the table once again. “Sit down for a minute.” 

Felix looks as though he would prefer to do anything but, but he shoves back the swords in his belt and sits at the edge of the chair. 

“How do you feel about joining the war council?” Claude asks him. Felix is harsh and doesn’t sugarcoat his words, but Claude’s war council hardly consists of the most refined individuals, anyway. The former Golden Deer have always been a ragtag group, and if Claude’s schemes work out over time, they’ll only be more ragtag by the end. Plus, Felix can be civil when he tries — courtly environments were part of his upbringing, after all. 

He’d be an asset and he’d offer a unique view on their plans. Claude wants him there. 

“I already told you, I’m not —” 

“I know, I know.” Claude waves his hand, dismissing his words. “You’re not here for me, you’re here to fight. And you will fight. But you can fight in ways that don’t involve your blade, too.” He pats the sword. “This shows me you want to do more.” 

“The only thing I want is a functioning weapon.” Felix stands. 

Claude also gets to his feet. He’s been sitting for a long time and can use the excuse to stretch. “And you’ll have that. Give Hilda the information for your contact. We’ll get your supplies.” 

Felix watches as Claude rolls his shoulders back, working out the kinks in his muscles. He doesn’t say anything in response, so Claude asks, “What? Isn’t that what you want?” 

“You’ll listen to me.” It’s a question, though Felix keeps his tone flat. He sounds disbelieving. 

“Is that so hard to believe? It isn’t the first time.” Claude stops stretching and makes a show of considering. “In fact, seem to recall that I used to listen to you a lot.” 

“You always wanted something in return,” Felix retorts. “That’s not listening.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Just because I got something out of it, doesn’t mean I didn’t value your proposals.” Annette and Mercedes were solid recruits, and would continue to be useful throughout the war. And Felix provided important insight on the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, too. Claude knows Felix’s perspective is his own fault for shattering any potential trust between them back then, but it is true that he has always valued Felix’s input. 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“That’s fair.” And it really is, considering where things ended between them. “You don’t have to join the council. It was just a suggestion.” The days of cajoling Felix into doing things against his will are over; they aren’t kids anymore, and neither of them have the time for those games. If Felix won’t join, then Claude will accept that. 

“I’ll join,” is Felix’s unexpected response, without further fanfare. He says it as though he had already made up his mind before making his arguments. “Someone has to keep you in line. Otherwise we’ll all end up fighting with broken weapons.” 

Claude doesn’t bother trying to keep his expression controlled. He allows a genuine smile, because Felix may be harder and colder, and they might be entrenched in a difficult war, but he’s still unpredictable in all the right ways. And Claude has always been susceptible to being surprised by Felix. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Felix tells him, turning away. “I’ll talk to Hilda.” 

“See you at the next council meeting,” Claude calls after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Felix takes this war council business seriously. 
> 
> Happy holidays, everyone! I likely won't post the next update until the holidays are over, but rest assured the next chapter is already in the works!


	10. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix takes this war council business seriously. Truths are exchanged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to an off-screen canon (depending on how you play VW) character death.

Felix’s approach to the war council turns out to be less about advising the council at large and more about advising Claude very specifically on nearly every aspect of Claude’s leadership. During the meetings, Felix does voice his opinion and often provides interesting feedback on potential plans. As expected, he is blunt and occasionally disrespectful, but he reserves his contempt for what are, Claude has to admit, poor strategic suggestions, often put forth by the church’s representatives. Claude quickly comes to appreciate Felix’s tongue, because whereas he must remain friendly and, at times, even appeasing to get his way, Felix has no such hindrances and can express what Claude is often thinking without causing negative consequences for the war effort as a whole. 

Once the council meetings end, however, Felix waits until he can speak with Claude alone, and then he lets loose a torrent of critiques and opinions about everything that came up during the meeting. 

It’s tiring. But it’s also valuable, because despite the fact that Felix views everything with a critical eye, he has a knack for war-room politics and an even bigger skill in determining the downstream effect of decisions. Claude can tell that Felix has learned a lot from being on the frontlines of the war in Faerghus territory. 

That doesn’t mean that he particularly enjoys these sessions, especially when Felix will not allow a long-decided point to be put to rest. After a grueling war council meeting, Claude prefers to have some time to gather himself, to unwind without having to maintain a front, and to nurse the budding headache that often results from hours worth of disagreement. 

“Ailell is a terrible place for a meeting,” Felix says for the second time since the council ended. He’s seated in the Cardinal’s Room, elbow on the table, hand cupping his forehead as though he’s fed up with this conversation, even though he’s the one who is forcing it to continue. 

Claude, meanwhile, is busy pouring Felix a glass of water because all his complaining is bound to leave him parched. “Here,” he says, placing it on the table in front of Felix. “Drink something.” 

“It’s too close to Faerghus,” Felix continues, ignoring both Claude and the glass in front of him. 

“It’s close to Galatea territory. Last I checked, Ingrid and her family are still against the Empire.” 

“House Galatea can barely afford to feed their own people. They won’t be able to protect the border against the Imperial army. You know that,” Felix accuses. 

It’s true. Claude does know that and he also knows that Felix’s concerns are entirely valid. But when it comes to war, sometimes you have to pick between two risky options. The Alliance is key to their success in the long-run, so they have to proceed with caution and go the way of Ailell, even at the risk of an ambush or losing men to the stifling heat of the Valley. 

This is the biggest difference between him and Felix — they see eye-to-eye on more than Felix would likely openly admit, but Felix is not one for long-term schemes. He prefers immediate results, which means he has a level of impatience that leads to conversations such as these. Of course, that’s partially Claude’s fault for not revealing his whole hand, but he knows that even if Felix knew the extent of his plans, he’d really never hear the end of it. 

“I haven’t made this decision lightly,” Claude tells him, “but it’s been made. Even Teach agrees it’s the best choice.” 

“She never speaks up against you,” Felix points out, and something new leaks into his tone — something that mildly piques Claude’s interest. “You could tell her we should surrender to the Empire and she would lead the way for you.” 

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” Claude replies, though he says it with a fond smile, thinking that Felix’s words could be true. As they continue with the war effort, Claude has the sense that Teach seems to truly trust him — she is perhaps the only person in all of Fódlan who does so without caveats — and she knows he wouldn’t make a decision like that unless there were truly no other options. It’s nice to have someone’s unquestioned faith, when so few — present company included — are willing to give it. 

Felix is disgusted by what he sees in Claude’s expression and finally stands. Apparently, all it takes is a fond smile to chase Felix away; this is the second time he has attempted to flee upon seeing one. It is a useful tool for lengthy conversations like these. 

Instead of immediately leaving, however, Felix stands over the table to level a glare at Claude. “Would you follow her?” he asks. 

“I already do,” Claude answers easily. “She’s my commander.” Claude’s tactics are unmatched, but his command on the battlefield has always paled in comparison to Teach’s skills. Without her, his schemes would only be words and unfulfilled plans. 

“Would you follow to her Edelgard, if she asked that of you?” Felix presses. His expression is cold, as it often is these days. 

“She wouldn’t,” Claude replies, simple and confident in tone. He knows her well enough to feel sure about it. 

“_If_,” Felix repeats, unwilling to abandon this line of conversation. 

Claude’s relationship with Teach runs far deeper than it did five years ago, when he first started at the Academy. He has told her several times now that he wants to help her make her dreams come true, just as he hopes to make his own dreams come true, and he meant it every time. He considers her his friend. He wants to see her succeed, just as she wants to see him succeed. 

But even within the context of her friendship, her usefulness is always on his mind. After all, they are fighting under her banner, and it is her connection to the church that has given them the manpower to push forward. It wouldn’t be far-off to say that he has used her — and will continue to do so. But she is aware of this, and still chooses to stand beside him. 

Regardless of how he feels about Teach, and as genuine as those feelings may be, if it came down to it — if Teach truly turned around and asked him to bend to Edelgard, to cast his own dreams away and side with her bloody methods of obtaining control — Claude would not follow her. He also knows he could not allow her to team up with Edelgard. That would be the end of everything for which they've worked. 

It’s a grim and uncomfortable thought exercise, but even as Claude’s mind quickly compartmentalizes these thoughts, he keeps that smile on his face and looks at Felix without allowing any of his considerations to show. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” he teases. 

Felix responds by sliding the glass of water across the table, placing it in front of Claude. “You drink this,” he says. “I can tell you have a headache.” 

And with a pointed look that carries more meaning than his words impart, he leaves Claude to think about how Felix still seems to have a knack for seeing more than he should. 

* * *

It turns out Felix is correct about the potential for an ambush in Ailell, but even with that being a consideration, no one predicted that they would also encounter Ashe. Claude doesn’t have time to ruminate too deeply on that tragic turn of events, because as soon as the battle is over, Judith joins them and they return to Garreg Mach to hold another series of council meetings on their approach to obtaining the Alliance’s support. 

Overall, their losses are minimal and the battle itself an objective success, but Claude can tell the morale of his group is wavering in the wake of their win. During the march back, he keeps a confident expression on his face and speaks conversationally — not just with Judith, but with everyone he can. He portrays himself as the pillar of success and positivity they need — with a little joking tossed in to lighten the mood — in hopes of keeping them facing forward. 

Upon arrival, they waste little time in holding council, as the sooner they make plans, the better off they’ll be, lest they go through all of Judith’s resources before they are able to make a move. Considering their success in Ailell, everyone is on board with attacking the Great Bridge of Myrddin next. He expects some resistance to his plan to distract Count Gloucester with infighting, but finds no opposition. Even Felix seems subdued during the meeting, offering only the occasional comment, but without his usual argumentative approach. 

When the council is dismissed, Felix opts to leave Claude instead of awaiting an audience with him for the first time since joining the council. That gives Claude enough pause to consider going after him — as much as he appreciates his free time, he can't help the slight nagging feeling of wanting to check in with him — but Judith and Hilda both take advantage of his freedom and move to sit across from him at the table. 

“I'll hand it to you, boy,” Judith says, casually leaning back in her chair. “You seem to be doing a decent job out here. You've got that council wrapped around your finger.” 

“It helps that we have a couple of wins under our belt,” Claude replies. 

“Don’t be so modest,” Hilda cuts in. “Everyone is really coming to respect you.” 

“You’ve come a long way,” Judith allows. “But don’t let that go to your head.” 

“I know,” Claude replies. “We still have a long way to go.” 

“And we’ll get there!” Hilda smiles. “With all your hard work.” He doesn’t miss the emphasis on the word _your_, but at this point, Hilda is fooling no one. She works hard, too, and they all know it. But he’ll let her have her front, just as she allows him his. 

“We will,” Claude agrees. 

They discuss a few additional matters, like arrangements for Judith's men, until Claude decides that he will look for Felix after all. 

“If there’s nothing else,” he says as he stands, “I have to track down a missed appointment.” 

Hilda watches him with a knowing expression on her face, but she thankfully holds her tongue in front of Judith. 

* * *

After the war council meeting, Felix goes to the training grounds. 

It’s empty. On the heels of their experience at the Valley of Torment, most of the knights are resting and recovering. Felix had considered seeking out Sylvain or Ingrid to spar with him, but knowing them, they are likely sitting somewhere together mourning a loss that never should have happened. Felix doesn’t want to take part in those conversations — he just wants to train and put it out of his mind. 

And that’s what he does — swings his sword and takes everything out on a training dummy — until Claude finds and interrupts him. 

“What?” Felix asks as he swings his sword again, hitting the training dummy so hard that a chunk goes flying off of the torso. 

“You didn’t show up for your scheduled ‘berate Claude’ session,” Claude explains, keeping a careful distance from Felix’s striking radius. “I thought you might be sick.” He says it lightly, of course, as though commenting on the weather. 

“I’m fine,” Felix answers, and swings again. The dummy splinters. 

“You might be fine,” Claude begins, “but that dummy sure won’t be when you’re done with him.” 

Breathing heavily, Felix spins around on Claude, using his free hand to swipe his hair out of his face. 

“What do you want?” he asks, in no mood for Claude right now — which is exactly why he avoided him after the council. 

“Are you —” Claude begins 

“Don’t,” Felix interrupts. He knows that Claude is going to ask him if he’s okay, if friendly blood on his hands has marred his mind in some way, if he’s concerned with the fact that his father hasn’t written in a while — if he can keep fighting despite the fact that this is only scratching the surface of what’s to come. 

He doesn’t want to hear Claude’s concern if it’s fake, if it’s meant to test him, and he wants to hear it even less if it’s genuine and lends itself to something more. 

“This is war,” Felix states, doing his best to close his heart to all other feelings. “It’s foolish to expect anything else.” 

“It isn’t foolish to feel,” Claude says conversationally, as though the topic doesn’t concern the death of former classmates. 

“What do you feel?” Felix asks, clenching the hilt of his sword. 

“More than you give me credit for,” Claude replies as he steps closer, ignoring Felix’s tense posture, the way he grips his sword as though he might swing it at any moment. “Right now, though, I feel like you’re hair is getting long.” He reaches forward and touches his bangs. “It’s in your eyes.” 

Felix steps back, glowering at Claude for the trespass, but his ire is mitigated by the fact that it is a true statement. His hair is getting unruly in a way that will cause him problems on the battlefield if he doesn’t do something about it. It had been on his mind in Ailell; swiping hair out of his face in between attacks is hardly an efficient manner of fighting. 

“I know,” he bites back, shoving the strands away again. 

“I’ll cut it for you,” Claude offers. “Since you did something nice for me today.” 

“I didn’t do anything,” Felix replies, facing the training dummy and adopting a fighting stance once more. 

“You gave me some peace and quiet. I know that’s difficult for you these days.” Claude’s lips quirk up in a half-smile, but he keeps the tease mostly contained. 

“You’re only offering to work an angle,” Felix states, tone dry. Ignoring that Claude is still close, he strikes the training dummy, at risk of hitting him in the process. 

Claude steps out of the way, but continues to talk. “Cut me some slack. I haven’t involved you in a scheme yet, have I? I have more important things to worry about these days.” 

Felix has to admit that it’s true. Claude hasn’t targeted him since his arrival in Garreg Mach, and these days, all his schemes are focused on the war, not on personal matters. They have mostly been civil with each other, and Claude has respected Felix’s opinions both during and after the council meetings. 

“It’ll be easier than doing it yourself,” Claude presses, “and cheaper than having someone else do it in these trying times.” 

“Can you even cut hair?” Felix asks, relaxing his posture and lowering his sword. 

“It can’t be that hard,” Claude remarks with a flippancy that instills little confidence in Felix. 

But he decides to relent. He doesn’t have much by way of personal funds, considering the situation with the war and the lack of word from his father, so his options are limited to either chopping it off with a dagger himself or letting someone else do it. 

Claude wouldn’t be his first choice — he’d prefer Hilda, as he knows from experience that she knows what she's doing with hair — but Claude has been giving him more leeway in matters of war, so Felix supposes he can give him this in turn. 

“Fine.” 

Claude looks as though he’s just won a board game — he dons the carefree, yet self-assured air with which Felix had become all-too familiar back in their Academy days — but Felix cleans up his training dummy and leads the way back to his room. 

While Claude retrieves scissors from somewhere, Felix throws an old blanket on the floor and sets his desk chair on top of it. He pulls the tie out of his hair, places it on his desk, then runs his fingers through his hair, trying to untangle it. 

“I have a comb for that,” Claude tells him as he enters the room, catching him in the act. 

Felix drops his hand. He takes a seat and faces forward, his attention on the wall. 

Claude begins in silence. 

Having just come from training, Felix’s hair is knotted and damp with sweat, but Claude is undeterred by the mess. He begins working the comb through each tangle gently, with a patience that Felix himself can never muster when putting his hair up in the mornings. There’s no tugging, no uncomfortable pulling — just a steady and careful easing through each strand. 

Eventually, Claude begins to hum. Felix immediately recognizes the tune as one of Annette’s. It shouldn’t be soothing, coming from Claude, but it is. It makes him think of their Academy days — Annette singing as she watered the flowers, putting her hands on her hips when she caught him listening, allowing herself to be teased into another song. 

The tune and the comb work in tandem to lull him into a state of relaxation. He feels like closing his eyes; it is only stubbornness that keeps him from giving in. 

Then Claude’s fingers brush his neck and Felix returns to the present moment. He jerks forward, away from the touch. 

Claude makes a _tsk_ noise and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t do that when I have scissors in my hand,” he chides, though his tone is amused. __

_ _“What are you doing?” Felix asks, turning in the chair to look at Claude. _ _

_ _“Getting ready to cut your hair,” Claude replies, turning to the desk and picking up the scissors. “Unless you’re having second thoughts.” _ _

_ _“Not that,” Felix replies. “The humming.” _ _

_ _“Oh, I thought you liked that one. Should I try a different tune?” _ _

_ _“Don’t hum at all,” Felix tells him, turning back around and pressing his back against the chair with more finality than necessary. _ _

_ _“Alright,” Claude says. “No humming. I’ll talk instead.” _ _

_ _His fingers once again weave their way into Felix’s hair, running through the strands until they reach the ends, where they pause. Felix can hear the scissors open, then snip. “I was wondering why you spend so much time telling me I’m doing everything wrong.” _ _

_ _Felix stares at the wall. He doesn’t move, not even when Claude’s fingers brush his neck a second time as they glide through his hair and pause once more to allow for a series of snips. _ _

_ _“I don’t think you believe my schemes are that bad.” His fingers trace Felix’s shoulders. They push away loose hair. “So why do you do it?” _ _

_ _Felix remains silent. Claude cuts more of his ends. The methodical snipping of the scissors seems to chip away at Felix’s resolve. His tongue wants to loosen, but he holds it in place. _ _

_ _“A truth for a truth,” Claude offers. His fingers rest against Felix’s scalp as he pauses for a response. __

_ __ _

__

Felix swallows. His throat feels dry. Claude resumes cutting his hair. The steady _snip, snip, snip_ seems to echo in the room. 

_ _He gives in. “No one questions you. They may disagree with you, but they don’t put up much argument when you talk about schemes and plans, because everyone thinks you’re a master tactician.” _ _

_ _“And you don’t?” Claude asks, his tone betraying nothing. _ _

_ _“I think you’re human, same as the rest of us.” _ _

_ _“So when you’re yelling at me about my plans, you’re...” Claude prompts. Felix can feel his hand near his ear, close but not touching. _ _

_ _“Challenging you,” Felix tells him. “Making you question yourself.” At least, that’s the goal. He doesn’t know if Claude walks away from their discussions with anything other than concealed annoyance. _ _

_ _“Ah.” Claude steps in front of Felix and crouches down to look at his bangs. When he reaches to run his fingers through them, Felix drops his eyes. He looks at Claude’s lips, briefly, before he feels the pull of Claude’s stare and looks up once more. _ _

_ _Their eyes meet. Claude’s are piercing, unusually bright. He acts like he’s going to touch Felix’s hair, but his fingers brush against his cheek instead. Felix presses his back against the chair, pulling away as best he can. _ _

_ _“If you don’t stay still,” Claude murmurs, “I’ll have to tie you up.” _ _

_ _“With what?” Felix asks, trying to be defiant but refusing to be the first to look away. _ _

_ _“My bowstrings.” Claude gives him a smile. It’s light, playful, but it feels predatory in this moment. “I brought them just in case.” _ _

_ _“You didn't.” Felix says it without breaking eye contact; he won’t glance behind him to where Claude has laid out his tools. _ _

_ _Claude laughs. “I’d be happy to show you.” _ _

_ _Done with being teased, Felix blusters, “Get on with it.” He stills himself, though, because he doesn’t want Claude to botch his work. _ _

_ _Claude raises the scissors. He is the first to look away. The scissors snip. _ _

“You gave me yours, so I’ll give you mine. What do you want to ask me?” _Snip. Snip._

_ _Felix has his question ready. “How do you feel about Ashe falling to your army?” _ _

“I didn’t know Ashe well,” Claude replies as the scissors go _snip_ yet again. 

_ _Felix lashes out with his hand and grabs Claude’s wrist. Claude doesn’t flinch; he holds the scissors still and does not try to pull away. _ _

_ _“That is a half-truth,” Felix hisses, words tight. _ _

_ _“You’re right,” Claude says, unsurprised by Felix’s reaction. Felix has the sense that he was provoked on purpose. _ _

_ _He wants to be annoyed, but then Claude drops his smile. The transition is staggering. He looks, all at once, world-weary and unhappy. “It bothers me." They are simple words, offered with no further explanation, but Felix can hear the truth in them. He can see Claude. _ _

Felix releases his wrist. Claude gathers himself just as quickly as he allowed his mask to drop — ease once more finding his features, the scissors once more finding hair. _Snip, snip,_ until his ends have been cut away. 

_ _“How did it make you feel?” Claude asks. “Another truth for another truth.” _ _

_ _Felix watches pieces of his bangs fall onto his lap, the chair, the floor. “Ashe was...” he says with difficulty, a lump forming in his throat as he thinks about Ashe and his ridiculous book about knighthood. He takes a breath, and then another, listening to the scissors snipping away at him. “He deserved —” The words die on his tongue. He can’t say more. _ _

_ _“It’s okay,” Claude tells him, voice quiet. His fingers graze his cheek once more. Felix knows that is no accident. “That’s enough for me. You can still have yours.” _ _

_ _Felix has his next question ready, too, and he is eager to move away from his only half-spoken truth. He swallows his unspoken words and asks, “Why are you doing this? What’s the point of this game?” _ _

_ _Claude smiles again, the picture of enjoyment. “For the same reason you always pester me,” he replies, and his tone is, infuriatingly, nearly sing-song in the way he delivers the comment. “To challenge you.” _ _

_ _Felix doesn’t have it in him to glare. _ _

_ _“And,” Claude adds, setting the scissors down. “I might have wanted to help you a little.” He sweeps stray bits of hair off of Felix’s shoulder. “Did it work?” _ _

_ _“Another truth?” Felix asks, unwilling to give more without a fair exchange. _ _

_ _“Nope,” Claude replies. “I can’t let you go too far.” _ _

_ _“Then I won’t answer.” _ _

_ _Claude expects this, and instead of continuing to find ways to invade Felix’s space, he produces a mirror and holds it out. Felix takes it. Even though the glass is clouded and imperfect, he can tell he looks mostly the same — only less burdened, more open. His eyes are unobscured and his face is free of a scowl. _ _

_ _He stands and holds out the mirror. Claude holds out his hand. When Felix places the mirror in it, his fingers touch Claude’s palm. _ _

_ _The moment is heavy, but Claude dissipates the atmosphere by raising his eyebrows and saying, “Not half bad, huh?” _ _

_ _Felix doesn’t reply, but Claude doesn’t press. He collects his tools and leaves with nothing more than a wave. _ _

_ _Felix has to clean up his hair. He has to bathe and launder his clothing. If he doesn’t, he'll be bothered by the remnants of what’s been cut away. _ _

* * *

_ __ _

__

After everything has been cleaned, Felix goes in search of Ingrid and Sylvain. He knocks on their doors. He looks in their usual haunts. He doesn’t find them until he decides to check the dining hall. 

There, he finds not only Ingrid and Sylvain, but the professor and all of the former Golden Deer, minus Hilda and Claude, sitting together and speaking in low tones. 

“Felix!” Annette calls cheerfully, despite her red-rimmed eyes. “Come sit with us.” 

“We’re holding a vigil tonight,” Marianne explains. 

Ignatz nods. “So none of us have to be alone after what happened.” 

Felix hesitates — this is exactly what he wanted to avoid. 

And yet — 

“At least sit for a little while,” Sylvain says. 

And yet Felix doesn’t want to turn away, either. 

He walks over to an empty seat at the end and sits. If anyone is surprised that he gives in, they don’t let it show. 

They sit together and they talk — about Ashe, about the battle, about what has passed and what is to come. 

Eventually, Ingrid says, “War is horrible.” 

And Felix replies, “It is.” 

* * *

“And where are you going?” 

Hilda catches Claude on his way back to his room. “Places to go, people to see, correspondence to answer,” Claude replies, “You know how it goes.” 

“Not tonight.” Hilda hooks an arm around his and pulls him away from the dorms. 

“Where are you dragging me off to?” he asks, thinking about the mountain of papers on his desk that await him. 

“You’ll see.” 

She leads him to the dining hall. They pause in the doorway to observe the group. 

“This is what we’re doing tonight,” Hilda states as she releases his arm. 

He can hear the murmurs — snippets about Ashe and the war. 

He scans the group and his eyes, as they tend to do, fall on Felix. Felix seems to sense this, because he looks toward the door. They hold each other’s stares for an extended moment. Then Felix briefly, nearly imperceptibly, inclines his head toward the chair next to him. 

“Let’s go,” Hilda says as she approaches the table. 

Claude sits next to Felix. Felix doesn’t look at him as he does so, but Claude knows he has Felix’s attention. 

And even when Claude is facing the group at large and sharing commentary of his own — even when he transitions the topic to lighter, happier remembrances to keep from dwelling too strongly on the tragedy — Felix has his attention, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: A little more respite before a turning point. 
> 
> I'm not quite done with holidays yet - I'm about to have company for a week and likely won't be able to write much at all. Please bear with me! I promise to post the next chapter as soon as I can.


	11. Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix shows some concern. Claude introduces Felix to someone. Felix reflects on his purpose in the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I ended up with an unexpected surge of free time despite having guests, so here's an early chapter to ring in the new year! 
> 
> The only warning for this chapter is some references to a mild and benign illness in the first section.

After the vigil, something changes. 

That had, in part, been Claude’s aim in the back-and-forth exchange of truth — the delicate invasion of Felix’s space, the slow clipping away at his walls. He had meant it as a gesture of goodwill, a way of slowly building up trust between himself and Felix, so they could work together more efficiently on the council, and so he could potentially stop looking at Claude as though Claude might turn around and pull him into an unkind scheme as he had five years ago. 

It wasn’t entirely selfish of a motive — it had, after all, been for Felix’s sake as much as for the sake of their working relationship, and Claude can’t deny the nagging part of himself that wants to help Felix, similar to the part of himself that wants to help Teach, the budding feeling reblooming as though five years and several mistakes hadn’t been enough to squander it — but it had been strategic, as most of Claude’s actions are. 

And it had worked. It isn’t that Felix is kinder or less harsh in his treatment of Claude, nor does he seem to be outwardly altered. Rather, the change is very subtle. It is as though Felix’s attention is now attuned to Claude in a way it wasn’t before, as though there’s the briefest consideration toward him before he speaks or takes action. It is not something that Claude expects others to see, but it doesn’t escape his notice. 

Only, the reverse is also true: Claude’s attention is pulled in Felix’s direction more often, and when he considers Felix and his role in the war, on his council, and on the battlefield, his thoughts tend in a more personal direction — less toward Felix’s overall useful qualities and more toward his own interests. 

Five years ago, when his thoughts strayed in this direction, he sought to put an end to it, with consequences that still extend into the present day. Now, he faces it with a greater maturity: he will not symbolically destroy the newly forming trust that exists between himself and Felix. He will continue to foster it, because it is in both their best interests to work in tandem, to operate as a team. 

There are limits to which they both must adhere. This is war — there is no time to deeply explore the loose ends that still exist between them — and even outside of that, the same barriers that existed for Claude in the past still exist now. He still has his secrets, and he must still hold them close to his chest, for the sake of Fódlan and his dreams. And Felix has his own hangups, Claude knows. 

But Claude now has enough experience to recognize that he doesn’t have to outright reject meaningful relationships in order to achieve his goals; he has learned that he doesn’t have to spurn friendship in order to keep his secrets. Teach is proof of that — she allows Claude to keep most of his cards close to his chest and follows him despite that. Hilda, to some extent, is growing toward that direction as well — her dedication has been rekindled since they reunited, and continues to grow. Having allies, he now knows, doesn’t always mean sacrifice. 

He just has to walk a careful line — one where he develops the potential for trust, with enough distance that none of his plans are foiled in the process. 

It should be easy. For better or for worse, Claude is long-accustomed to ignoring his own feelings — whether positive or negative — in order to remain focused on his goals. 

But Felix always manages to surprise him. 

A few days out from the battle for the Great Bridge of Myrddin, his troops get roped into several skirmishes along trade routes. While clearing those routes is necessary for the sake of their supplies and the confidence of their supporters, the timing is terrible. They are successful, but many soldiers end up requiring healer attention, and with the battle approaching, the situation is less than ideal. 

Add to that the fact that Claude, somewhere between the skirmish and the last war council before the battle, manages to work himself into developing a mild but pestering head cold, and he has a scenario that makes it difficult to maintain a front of positivity. 

He maintains that front, though, all throughout the council, and presents himself the picture of wellness — keeping water at hand for his irritated throat and only allowing the most subtle of coughs when eyes are directed elsewhere — because everyone needs to have confidence in both him and his plans going forward. 

That doesn’t stop Felix from lingering after the council to eye him without any pity as he asks, “Do you plan on seeing a healer, or will you ride into battle sniffling like a child?” 

Felix has always been perceptive enough to see a little more than Claude would like, but now that they have been spending more time together, his perceptions have been getting sharper. 

“The healers are overworked as it is.” And their usefulness for illness extends to herbs and basic symptom relief; basic healing spells can mend wounds but not cure illness, or plagues would never be an issue. Besides, it would look poorly on him as a leader to seek care for something so minor when there are seriously injured soldiers who need attention. 

“Not so overworked that they can’t at least brew you something,” Felix replies, unimpressed with Claude’s excuse. 

“Careful,” Claude teases, a deflection away from his current state of health, “or I might think you care.” 

Something brief and fleeting crosses Felix’s face — anger, mixed with a slight tinge of a frustrated flush in his cheeks — which he quickly shuts down. “Whatever. Do what you want.” 

This exchange ends their meeting early, for which Claude is glad, so he can review documentation and finalize the tactics for the upcoming battle in peace, and allow himself the occasional cough or uncomfortable sigh without having to hide it for an audience. 

Unfortunately, the battle with his body is one that he winds up losing — instead of finishing the stack of papers that lie on the table in the Cardinal’s Room, he ends up falling asleep in his chair, head resting on top of the pile, becoming a sight he’d regret. 

When he wakes, it’s to a gentle hand on his shoulder, a slight touch along his forehead, and a quiet voice that whispers, “Don’t try to stab me this time.” 

Claude sits up quickly. He has enough sense not to reach for his dagger, but his mind is slow to catch up into the present, as though encased in fog. Blearily, he looks at toward the person who roused him, and finds himself staring at Felix’s angry expression. 

“You’re a mess,” Felix tells him. 

“Felt like a nap,” Claude tries to explain away, blinking down at his paperwork. The rasp of his voice is now more prominent. 

“If someone else were to walk in here, they’d look at you as a sorry excuse for a leader.” 

Claude’s mind works slowly, but he manages to ask, “But not you?” 

There’s a pause while Felix glares and Claude resists the desire to put his head right back down on his stack of papers. Then Felix says, “Get up.” 

“As you can see,” Claude says hoarsely, “I’m hard at work.” 

“You’re feverish,” Felix tells him. “Get to your room before someone sees what a disaster you are.” 

“You sure know how to sweet talk a guy,” Claude mumbles, but Felix is right. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. He gets to his feet and gathers his papers in a heap, which Felix reaches over him to grab. 

Claude raises his eyebrows. 

“Walk,” Felix tells him, looking away. 

Claude does so without protest. With Felix tailing him, he makes his way to his room. Felix follows him inside and deposits the papers on his desk. 

Then he leaves. 

Claude could ruminate on Felix’s brand of gruff concern, but he’d rather do that with a clear head. Instead, he changes for bed and is about to collapse for the night, when Felix returns and holds out a vial. 

“What is it?” Claude asks, holding it up to a candle to examine the color. 

“It’s from Mercedes,” Felix replies, which isn’t quite an answer, but it’s enough of one. Claude recognizes the color and, upon opening the vial to sample it, can identify it as a fever reducer of some kind. 

“Drink it and go to bed before you embarrass yourself.” Felix stands there, folding his arms, waiting. 

Regardless of how awful he feels, Claude’s lips quirk in a smile as he obeys. He downs the potion, then holds out the empty vial. 

Felix takes it. 

“Thank you,” Claude tells him with complete sincerity. 

“You can’t falter out there,” is all Felix says before he leaves. 

Left alone, Claude gets into bed, and fever-addled as his mind is, it slips toward unwarranted thoughts. He tries to remember the last time anyone has fussed over him like this over something so minor and insignificant and comes up empty. Throughout his life, most would rather see him suffering or even dead than lend a hand, and his parents, though they cared for him, tended toward tough love over soft concern. 

Felix may have given his words a harsh edge, but it doesn’t take a non-fevered mind to recognize the actions for what they are. 

He’s warm in a way that has nothing to do with his fever as he drifts off to sleep, weak thoughts caving to admit that no matter how things have changed and how much time has passed, one thing has remained the same: Felix will always manage to capture Claude’s attention — to pique his interest and hold it until Claude’s feelings end up wrapped up around him in a way they really shouldn’t. 

And maybe the circumstances can’t allow for him to indulge those feelings, but like this — sick and in the safety of his room, away from the stares of the monastery residents — Claude allows himself to consider that Felix’s care emerges from the same line of feeling. 

When he wakes in the morning, his fever is broken and his strength has returned. 

* * *

After the battle for the Bridge, while Claude dishes out orders for his forces, everyone temporarily goes their separate ways — Lorenz to his father, Judith to protect the Bridge, Raphael to his sister. Felix assumes he will be joining Judith along with the other units who have no ties to the Alliance. He doesn’t expect Claude to weave his way through the soldiers to find him. 

Felix squints at him as he approaches, trying to read Claude’s expression, but finds it to be blank — more so than usual, as though Claude is keeping himself carefully neutral. 

“I’d like you to come with me and Teach,” he says. “I’m going to negotiate with the lords and can use a sword at my back.” 

“I’d rather fight,” Felix tells him, glancing toward the bridge where Judith is dolling out orders. “You can bring Ingrid.” 

“Ingrid hasn’t been on my war council,” Claude refutes. 

“So you don’t want a sword,” Felix surmises. “You want a sharp tongue.” 

“That could also be useful.” Claude nods toward where the professor is waiting for them. “Come on.” 

Fighting with his words isn’t as satisfying as fighting with his sword, but Felix follows without further protest. When they catch up with the professor, she gives Felix a small smile and makes light conversation about the battle and Felix’s sword technique — topics she knows Felix enjoys. He gets the sense that she’s plying him for the task ahead, but he allows it, since he is always up for a conversation about fighting. 

Though so engaged, Felix immediately notices when they approach a large foreigner, even before the exclamation of “Kiddo!” directed in Claude’s direction. 

Claude introduces him as his retainer, Nardel. Felix watches the exchange between Claude and the man, and then the professor and the man, with a growing interest. He looks as though he’d be a strong fighter, and anyone who treats Claude like a kid — as Judith does — is bound to be worth some salt. 

“And who’s this young man?” Nardel asks with a smile as he turns his attention to Felix. 

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius of Faerghus,” Claude introduces. “He’s on my war council.” 

“You look like you have some fire in you, Sir Fraldarius,” Nardel says in a way that seems approving. 

Claude and the professor both glance at Felix. 

“Don’t call me that,” Felix says. He isn’t a knight and referring to him in such a formal manner only makes him think of his father. 

“My apologies,” Nardel says in a grand fashion with a stiff and unpracticed bow, glancing at Claude as he lowers his upper body. 

Claude transitions the conversation, and before long, dismisses Nardel, who asks both the professor and Felix to continue to watch out for him. 

“He isn’t from Fódlan,” Claude explains to them both once they leave Nardel. 

“That’s obvious,” Felix replies. 

“He’s highly capable and an excellent fighter,” Claude continues. 

“He looks strong,” the professor comments. 

“I’d be interested in seeing how strong,” Felix remarks. 

Claude laughs. “Of course you’d want to spar with him.” 

“If he learned how to fight outside of Fódlan, he’d be an interesting opponent,” Felix explains, wondering what his fighting style might be like. 

Claude grins at him too brightly. 

“I’d be interested in watching that match,” Claude says, sounding all too amused. 

“Me too,” the professor agrees, and then she’s smiling at Felix, also. 

Felix rolls his eyes in annoyance and directs his attention ahead. 

* * *

After the vigil, something changes. 

Felix tries not to reflect on it too deeply leading up to the Great Bridge of Myrddin, but once the battle is over and there’s a brief lull in activity, his thoughts begin to drift in that direction. He trains hard, as he always does, but swinging his sword can only distract him for so long before his mind goes from focused to reflecting. 

After arriving in Garreg Mach, he had been honest in telling Claude that he was not here for him — that his sole purpose in staying at the monastery was to fight. In many ways, that’s still true. But Felix also finds himself discovering new purpose in his peripheral activities. A small part of him actually enjoys his work on the war council, and he likes that Claude seems to take most of his opinions seriously — that he uses Felix as a kind of mouthpiece at times when he himself needs to be placating. 

Before they met with the Alliance lords, Claude had pulled Felix aside and fed him some information — coached him into making a few specific suggestions to guide the meetings the way he wanted them to go. And whereas before Felix might have been annoyed with being made to scheme, he realizes just how useful his role in these plans can be. It reminds him of Claude’s approach to the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. Felix had followed Claude’s instructions back then and it had secured them a win. 

Now, it’s similar: when he follows Claude’s lead and sharply rejects or suggests specific topics, he can see the way the group comes to the conclusion Claude wants to reach, which in turn benefits the war effort as a whole. 

His usefulness extends beyond his sword; his tongue is a weapon, too. And Felix begins to take a certain enjoyment in wielding his words. 

Now, he’s here for more than mere fighting, and when he thinks about that, he feels conflicted. That had not been his intention in the beginning of all this, but he can’t deny a small sense of growing satisfaction. 

On top of that, spending so much time with Claude means that Felix has come to understand him better than ever before. He can recognize, now, pieces of Claude that he keeps carefully tucked away — the way his inflection changes when he’s tired, the way his smile subtly shifts when a conversation begins to stray from its goal, the way he has planned out not only the immediate approach to the war, but, Felix suspects, through to the end. 

And when he loses control of his thoughts, he thinks of Claude giving him that haircut — of his fingers brushing against his cheek, of the way Claude momentarily dropped his guard, of that closeness that Felix should have protected himself against. 

He thinks of Claude always offering him a challenge, always keeping him engaged, and he can feel his resolve wavering, old feelings being unearthed at a time that they should stay long-buried. Despite trying to face forward, his thoughts track backward, to Claude at the Academy — to those few intimate moments — and Felix can only chide himself and throw himself into training in response. 

“Felix,” Marianne says, pulling him out of those thoughts. 

They sit together in the dining hall. Marianne no longer needs to use him as a shield — she has grown a lot over these five years and continues to develop into a level of confidence she used to lack — but she enjoys upholding this tradition from time to time. Felix doesn’t mind it, because while she is more talkative than she used to be, she is still quieter than most. 

“You look unhappy,” she continues, tone a little hesitant. 

“I’m fine,” Felix replies, refocusing on his food. 

“I see,” Marianne replies, looking down at her plate. 

They fall quiet, but eventually, Marianne looks up again. “It’s just...you’ve helped me so much. I’d like to be able to help you, too.” 

Felix doesn’t know how he keeps ending up in this situation — with people telling him that he’s been helpful when he’s fairly certain he’s been anything but, and then trying to help him in exchange. He responds to Marianne the same way he always does: “I haven’t done anything.” 

“You’ve always let me sit with you like this. I know you don’t like it, but you never once treated me like a burden.” She gives him a small but genuine smile. 

“You can sit wherever you want to sit. It has nothing to do with me letting you,” Felix argues. 

Marianne is quiet for another moment, but then she starts to laugh — a soft laugh, but enough of one that Felix scowls and demands, “What?” 

“I’m sorry.” She takes a breath to calm herself. “You’re right. I can sit wherever I want.” Though she stops laughing, she still smiles at him — looking happier than Felix thinks he’s ever seen her. “But I like sitting with you, and I’m glad it doesn’t bother you.” 

Felix makes a _hmph_ noise and pushes food around on his plate. 

“And if you ever want to talk about anything...I’m happy to listen.” 

“I have nothing to say,” Felix tells her. 

“Okay,” Marianne replies, though her tone is still happy. 

They fall into their usual silence after that, and Felix is nearly done eating when Hilda walks up to their table. 

“Hi Marianne!” she greets brightly. “And Felix! Claude is looking for you, whenever you have a moment.” 

“I’m done,” Felix announces and stands. Hilda takes his seat after he vacates it. 

“He’s in the library.” 

Felix heads that way, and tries to abandon all of the thoughts that occupied his meal. 

When he arrives, Claude is leaning against a bookcase, holding a large volume on the County of Bergliez. He raises it as Felix enters and asks, “Do you remember when you brought me this book?” 

Felix looks at it, but doesn’t reach for it. “Before the Battle of the Eagle and Lion,” he recalls. He remembers bringing it to Claude’s napping tree — and he remembers getting angry with him almost immediately, but despite his anger, professing a kind of loyalty to him by promising not to share the Golden Deer’s secrets. 

Claude idly flips through the book. “You told me if I were a king, you wouldn’t bend your knee for me. Do you remember that?” 

Felix feels a brief surge of shame at hearing those words said back at him. He does remember, and he felt they were justified at the time, given the way Claude treated him, but with the distance of time and within the context of their newly developing relationship, they sound unnecessarily cruel. “I do.” 

Claude sets the book back on the shelf, then looks at Felix. Felix tries to make sense of his expression, but finds he cannot. Claude is not only guarded today — he is specifically guarded against Felix. 

“You were right to say that back then,” Claude tells him. “But you wouldn’t say those words now, would you?” 

Felix doesn’t understand where this is going. He automatically slides into the defensive, going so far as to take a literal step back against whatever this conversation is going to become. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say,” he says. “Speak clearly.” 

“When we were leaving the Alliance to return to Garreg Mach, you made a comment about how I’d be perceived after the war.” Claude’s tone is carefully neutral. 

Felix remembers that as well. He had been getting on Claude’s case about the Alliance nobles and how his infighting scheme was perceived. It had granted him the win, but Felix saw the way Count Gloucester had looked at Claude. When they left, Felix had warned Claude about reining in his scheming for the sake of his image after the war. 

He says none of this out loud. He merely waits for Claude to continue. 

“You would make an excellent advisor for a King, Felix,” Claude tells him. There’s a hint of something in his tone — sincerity, maybe. Felix can’t quite place it. “But I will not be King of Fódlan when this war is over.” 

This should not be a surprise. Now that Felix catalogues his many conversations with Claude, he realizes that Claude has never specifically mentioned claiming the title for himself. He has never once made his own personal motives clear. 

But when he says it, Felix realizes that he had been assuming that Claude ruling a unified Fódlan was the natural end to all of this. He realizes that he had been treating Claude as he would have treated Dimitri, were Dimitri still alive to rise to power. 

And though Claude is still carefully neutral, Felix knows that Claude has reached that same conclusion. He might as well be saying, _I’m not Dimitri._

Felix feels a coldness settle over him. It must show on his face, because Claude allows his features to soften. 

“What I’m trying to say —” 

“Who?” Felix interrupts. “If not you, then who else is there?” Dimitri is dead and if everything works out, Edelgard will be, too. Without Claude, what leader is left to rule? 

“I’m still working that out,” Claude replies. He doesn’t elaborate — he waits for Felix to react further. 

“Then what’s the point?” Felix asks, his mind still reeling, still caught up in thinking about how easily he fit into this role, how he had slipped into thinking that he was helping Claude toward being an eventual King. How, without even realizing, he slid into a position he was supposed to hate. 

He doesn’t mean the point of the fighting — he understands that, of course. He means the point of his involvement — in whatever this is that Claude has been doing with him. 

“I’ve been trying to show you that you are more than your sword,” Claude explains. “I want you to see that you can have a purpose outside of fighting. I want to help you discover your dreams.” 

“Don’t talk to me about dreams,” Felix nearly growls, the words guttural as they tear from his throat. He steps back again, but Claude takes a step forward, refusing to allow Felix to increase the distance between them. “You know —” The words catch in his throat. He wants to say, _You know I don’t have dreams. You know I don’t want dreams._ But Claude has seen to it that Felix has developed some sense of purpose outside of fighting since he arrived. 

And Felix feels manipulated as a result. He didn’t want this — he never asked to be made into something more. 

He turns to leave, but Claude catches his arm. His grip is strong; he keeps Felix from wrenching away. 

Felix glares at him. “I will fight you right here,” he warns. 

“Don’t shut down,” Claude tells him. In contrast to his hold on Felix’s arm, his words are quiet, his tone gentle. “I may not become King, but I need you — on the battlefield, but also on my war council. And I think that you need —” 

“If you finish that sentence, I will pull my blade.” Felix finds his hilt with his free hand. 

“You won’t,” Claude replies. 

Felix tightens his grip. 

“I think you need this, too,” Claude finishes. 

Felix grips his sword so hard, his hand aches. But he doesn’t pull it free. 

Claude releases him, but he remains close, the two of them nearly touching. 

“I wanted to be honest with you,” Claude admits. “Before our next battle.” 

There’s something else in that statement — something between the lines. Felix doesn’t know what it is. 

“If you’re being honest, then tell me what your grand plan is for when all of this is over,” Felix challenges him. 

“It’s not time for that yet,” Claude replies quietly. 

Felix pushes past him. “So much for honesty.” 

This time, Claude allows him to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: A turning point (aka, buckle up for Gronder)


	12. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turning point.
> 
> Or:
> 
> "It’s always bully Felix hours it seems." - troofless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to an off-screen canon character death.

Leading up to the last war council before the next battle, Felix trains. First, he forces Sylvain to spar. When Sylvain tires, Felix talks Ingrid into training with him. Then he spends hours with Raphael, who, though boisterous, does a good job of focusing on training and nothing else. When Raphael goes in search of food, he talks Annette into joining him, and after that, he even manages to cajole Judith into a sparring match, throughout which she continuously calls him “angry boy.” He loses, but not without getting her to agree to a rematch in the future. 

None of it helps take his mind off of his conversation with Claude. Training doesn’t give him the clarity that he needs to decide what his next action should be. Should he quit the war council? Should he renounce this newly developing purpose? Should he try to keep operating as he has been, at the risk of fostering dreams and ideals that he never wanted in the first place? 

He’s angry, but it isn’t the knee-jerk reactionary anger he felt during his conversation with Claude. It’s simmered into something subtle — focused inward instead of outward. He’s more angry with himself for letting down his guard, for thinking of Claude as a king-to-be, and for feeling, at the edge of his thoughts, a kind of understanding for what Claude was trying to do by involving him in all of this. 

Ultimately, he ends up with no answers except that he wants to continue fighting, as he has always wanted to do. Claude can teach him tactics, put him on his war council, and try to make him into more than a sword, but Felix will never be separated from his blade. He will always choose to keep fighting. 

A few days before the war council, Sylvain finds him on the training grounds, picks up a lance, and asks, “Did you hear about the army fighting under the banner of House Blaiddyd?” 

And then the conversation with Claude slides into context. Everything gains a sheen of clarity and Felix realizes, even as he tries to harden his emotions and grip his sword, that no matter how often he has declared that he would take down the boar if necessary, he doesn’t want to make that choice. 

“What are we doing?” Sylvain asks him, readying the lance and waiting for Felix to attack. 

“Fighting,” Felix replies, raising his sword. 

But he doesn’t attack. He and Sylvain stand there, across from each other, weapons in hand. 

Eventually, Felix says, “He’s dead.” 

Sylvain answers, “Yeah, I know.” 

Yet they still stand, neither of them willing to deliver the first blow. 

* * *

Though Claude is calculated and confident when it comes to his tactics and schemes, he is also a risk taker. Most people do not realize just how much risk many of his schemes involve. When he pushes forward with the utmost faith in his plans and they work out, everyone assumes it’s because of skill. And yes, skill in tactics and a penchant for scheming do have a lot to do with it, but sometimes, so does luck. He never says as much, however, because no one needs to know when his wins are narrow. 

Claude would argue that his conversation with Felix wasn’t a scheme so much as it was an attempt to get Felix to think about his place in this war and his plans for the future, especially given the news about the unidentified army. Even so, it involved a significant amount of risk. Felix is and always has been somewhat unpredictable, so Claude had to take that step knowing there was a chance that Felix would quit the war council — if not worse. He chose to have faith that Felix would come around and see the value in Claude’s confession and their subsequent conversation, though he is admittedly a little concerned. 

Until Felix shows up for the war council and takes his seat beside Claude. He doesn’t look at Claude at all throughout the meeting and remains uncharacteristically quiet, but he attends, and Claude accepts it as progress. 

Then they go to battle, and Claude doesn’t have time to think about Felix at all. 

He does, of course, the moment he confirms that Dimitri is the one fighting under his banner, which Claude had considered a possibility when he first learned of the unidentified army. He thinks of Felix long enough to tell Teach that she should send all the former Blue Lions as far away from Dimitri’s forces as possible to avoid the emotional trauma that comes with fighting your former childhood friend. Then he has to put all such thoughts out of his mind, because the fighting breaks out and it’s absolutely chaotic. 

The battle plays out in a way that unsettles Claude. He doesn’t want to fight Dimitri — he understands what Dimitri is doing here, and he has always had respect for the earnest and polite house leader he came to know during their time at the Academy — but the battle ends up being so messy and confusing that they have no choice. There’s no way to pull Dimitri aside to speak with him, and fighting against him becomes a matter of survival. 

Claude has no idea how many of Dimitri’s soldiers he and his battalion take out as they push their way forward, but he steels himself as one must do in war and shoots arrows at anyone who raises a weapon or casts a spell in their direction. 

Then, a turning point: the hill is set on fire and it causes a wave of distraction across nearly everyone. It’s brief, but long enough that Claude reacts to a Thoron spell cast at him a second too late. He attempts to guide his wyvern out of the way, but he’s too slow, and he and his wyvern both take the brunt of the attack. 

The force of it, plus his ill-timed attempt to avoid it, jolts Claude out of his saddle. In such a scenario, his wyvern would usually instinctively shift to keep him from falling, well-trained as she is, but she’s still reeling from the spell, too confused to respond to the sudden disappearance of her rider’s weight. 

Claude falls. 

Colliding with the ground leaves him bleeding and dazed, a few bones possibly broken, his mind definitely clouded by a concussion and his bow too far away for him to locate. It takes several moments for him to stave off unconsciousness, and though the threat remains, he at least manages to take a look around. Only by the chaos of the battle does he manage to escape notice long enough to haphazardly pull his sword, though the effort causes so much pain he nearly blacks out. 

For one wildly hopeful second, he thinks that Marianne notices him, but then she turns away and Claude realizes he may actually die here, gracelessly, due to a stupid lapse in his attention. 

Luck abandons him further when a shadow is cast over him and he squints up to see Dimitri, wielding his hero’s relic in his direction. 

“I was hoping to talk to you,” Claude says with a laugh that is more cough than amusement. 

“I will kill anyone in my way,” Dimitri threatens, though not quite to Claude. His one eye is looking elsewhere, toward the burning hill, beyond which Edelgard is likely stationed. “Even you.” 

“Can I convince you to change your mind, for old time’s sake?” Claude ventures. He tries to move backwards to put distance between them as best he can, but his body protests and he remains prone on the ground, uselessly clinging to his sword. 

Dimitri looks at him, then, but Claude realizes he doesn’t really see him. He’s haunted, his eye unfocused, looking bruised due to lack of sleep and undoubtedly many horrors that Claude cannot begin to guess. 

“I will crush you,” Dimitri tells him. Claude is as sad for Dimitri as he is for himself, because he isn’t in his right mind, and it’s looking like he will not survive this battle either, with his erratic behavior holding him back. Both of their dreams will die on this field. 

Still, Claude doesn’t intend to go lying down. He forces himself into a sitting position and says, “After you.” 

Dimitri raises Areadbhar and even though it will make quick work of him, Claude raises his sword as best he can to defend himself. 

Dimitri steps forward, swings — 

And then Felix is there. 

Felix, who is supposed to be across the field, somewhere else, anywhere except right here in this moment, forced to fight his childhood friend and former prince, the man to which Felix has always, deep down inside, been complicatedly loyal — 

Felix is there and he raises the Aegis Shield to block the attack. He has to dig his heels into the ground to absorb the force, but his intervention saves Claude. 

“Boar! I will cut you down!” Felix yells, raising his sword. 

Dimitri doesn’t react. He raises his lance again, this time poised to attack Felix. 

Felix attacks first. Claude calls out as loud as he can, “Wait!” but Felix is already moving, already swinging his blade. 

Dimitri catches his sword with Areadbhar and the two of them end up in a temporary stalemate, both of them pushing against each other, refusing to back down. Claude attempts to get to his feet, to try and intervene, to hopefully bring Dimitri back to his senses, before either of them make a mistake they can’t take back. 

But before he makes any progress, Felix yells, “Dimitri!” 

It’s only there for a fleeting second — a glimmer of recognition, a hesitancy — but it provides Felix enough of an edge to shove Dimitri backward. Dimitri mumbles something that Claude doesn’t fully catch, because as soon as Felix has enough distance from him, he hauls Claude up and begins dragging him away. 

Dimitri seems to accept this, because he turns and stalks off toward the burning hill, calling for Edelgard’s head once more. 

“Shut up,” Felix tells Claude, perhaps preemptively, because Claude hasn’t said a word. It’s an unnecessary instruction because Felix is maneuvering Claude in an extremely rough manner, making his vision darken with pain, his mind temporarily going blank. He may even momentarily pass out, because the next thing he knows, he’s being unceremoniously dropped in front of Marianne, who immediately heals the worst of his injuries. 

By the time Claude is recovered enough to get to his feet and hold a conversation without groaning, Felix has long disappeared back into the fighting. It takes another round of healing to get Claude functional again, though he will need time to fully recover when this battle ends. He whistles for his wyvern several times before she finally finds him and allows herself to be mounted once more. 

Once Claude is back in the fray, the battle has turned in their favor. In the end, they emerge victorious, though they have suffered losses and many are injured. Edelgard still lives and their win is more narrow than Claude would like, but it is still a victory. 

The real cost of the battle, however, comes during the post-battle debrief. Claude stands with his former Golden Deer and Teach — many of them bleeding, all of them exhausted. Claude himself has to exert a significant amount of effort to keep himself upright, to keep his expression from growing grim as he reflects on the tragedy of this battle and how it cost them so much. 

It becomes even more difficult to maintain a front when Hilda approaches the group to say, “I saw him.” 

Claude’s stomach drops, though he is careful not to let it show. He has to force himself to look at Hilda, rather than allowing a brief glance at Felix, as he asks, “Who? Dimitri?” 

Hilda nods. “I saw him surrounded by Imperial troops,” she explains, her tone melancholy, betraying the end of her explanation. “And…” She looks at Felix and hesitates. 

Felix doesn’t wait to hear the rest. He turns and leaves — disappears into the ranks of waiting knights. Claude has to bite his tongue to keep from calling for him; he has to fight the urge to pursue him. 

“He was out there?” Sylvain asks. His stare falls on Claude, accusatory as he recognizes that Claude kept that information from them on purpose. 

“I thought —” Ingrid says, surprised, her words stuttering. “I saw the banner, but —” She also looks at Claude, a question in her expression. 

Claude keeps his attention on Hilda. 

“He was pierced by their spears,” Hilda explains quietly. “I'll never forget it. He deserved a better end.” 

Even though he knew that would be the inevitable conclusion of Hilda’s explanation, it still causes a clenching in his chest. He thinks of Dimitri, driven by his goal, haunted by whatever happened across those five years, facing down former friends, only to be taken out like that. 

He truly did deserve better. 

Dedue did, too. Claude can only hope that he made it out alive somehow. 

“No,” Ingrid whispers. “That can’t be true.” 

Sylvain leaves. Ingrid seems to come to her senses and follows, calling out for him. Annette watches them leave, looking as though she might want to go after them, but Mercedes puts a hand on her shoulder. 

Claude can’t allow himself to be distracted by any of this, though — not his own feelings, nor the reactions of Felix and the others. He tries to push all of it out of his mind until they end the debrief, and then, after everyone has been dismissed, he decides to escape for a few minutes to collect himself. 

At least, that’s the plan, but Teach pulls him aside before he can temporarily disappear. 

“There’s someone you should speak with,” she says as she leads him to a group of soldiers. 

They’re Dimitri’s knights — now lost without a leader, some of them looking hopefully at Claude, as though he might provide direction. But in front of them stands Leonie, tears drying on her cheeks, her expression set in determination. 

“Leonie,” Claude breathes. He had thought he was maxed out on surprises for the day, but apparently that was not the case. 

She straightens her posture, raising her chin defiantly, and walks up to Claude. “Dimitri was a good man,” she tells him, a challenge in her tone, as though she expects argument. 

“He was,” Claude replies. 

“He was in a lot of pain,” she adds, fresh tears gathering in her eyes. 

“I know.” He saw that, too. 

“He never —” her voice catches, but she overcomes the lapse. “He never looked down on me. Not once. He said...” She takes a breath. “He said he liked that I spoke frankly to him. That I called him ‘Dimitri’ instead of ‘Your Highness.’” 

Claude is about to respond, but Leonie keeps talking, wiping a hand across her eyes as she says, “I want to join you. I want to go after Edelgard for what she did to him.” She gestures to the knights behind her. “Them, too.” 

“Absolutely,” Claude agrees immediately. If he had been given the opportunity to speak with Dimitri prior to all of this, he would have suggested joining forces himself. “We’d be happy to have you join us. I’ll send Hilda this way in a few minutes. She’ll arrange all the details.” 

Leonie nods, her features softening. “I can tell you’ve grown into a reliable leader,” she tells him. “I watched your soldiers out there. You inspire some real loyalty.” 

Loyalty. The word brings up too many emotions that Claude cannot yet allow himself to acknowledge. He puts on a smile and says, “You’ve got me! I grew up a little.” 

She attempts to smile, too, though it lacks vibrance. “It’s good to see you again, Claude.” 

“You, too,” Claude replies. He's sincere. He’s glad that Leonie isn’t another casualty of this war — and of a thoughtless scheme he put into motion five years ago. 

* * *

Claude only catches a few glances at Felix on their way back to the monastery. Felix keeps himself cut off from the group and rejects any attempts at engaging him in discussion. Sylvain and Ingrid only try to talk to him once, then decide to give him space. 

It’s Hilda who finally manages to have a short discussion with him, but when Claude guides his wyvern downward to ask her about it, she shakes her head. “Sorry, that was a private conversation.” 

“Is he alright?” Claude asks. He doesn’t need the details; that’s all he really wants to know. 

Hilda sighs, looking as tired as Claude feels. “I don’t know.” She pauses. “I saw him. What he did to save you. Honestly, I never thought, if it came down to it, that he would...” 

_Pick you_, Claude’s mind supplies even though Hilda trails off, a thought he follows with another: _Me either._

All this time, even as they worked together and formed a kind of friendship, Claude had never thought that Felix would choose to be loyal to him if given a clear choice. Of all possible actions Felix could take, that had been the most unexpected. 

In truth, Claude had never expected anyone to side with him, specifically, rather than merely choosing sides in a war or supporting Teach. And that’s why, in the gap of silence that falls between himself and Hilda, he says in a mildly joking manner, “I didn’t know I could inspire such loyalty.” 

“Oh please,” Hilda responds immediately, unimpressed. “If that’s even half-true, you’ve been blind this whole war.” 

As he urges his wyvern upward again and looks over his friends — tired and bloody, victorious but sober in the wake of the horrid battle — he thinks that he really has been. 

* * *

After they make it back to the monastery, Claude has little time to reflect on the nature of loyalty or on Felix’s actions. First, he has to go to the infirmary for additional treatment. Though his injuries have been magically mended, his body has more healing to do on its own and seems keen on protesting anything more than subtle movements. Since work still awaits him, he accepts something for the pain and pushes onward. 

He remains busy until late evening, checking in with Leonie, holding the post-battle council, and ensuring that all injured soldiers receive treatment. Throughout it all, Felix is nowhere to be seen, so when the day is over and he finally has a free moment, Claude chooses not to rest, but to go in search of him. He isn’t at the training grounds, nor in the dining hall, and no one seems to have seen him since their arrival. Claude decides to knock on his door. 

When there’s no answer, he calls out, “Felix. It’s me.” 

He waits so long that he nearly ends up deciding Felix isn’t in his room, but just as he is about to leave, the door opens. Felix is dressed down for the evening and looks exhausted but calm, as though completely out of energy. “What?” 

“Can I come in?” Claude asks. 

Felix doesn’t respond immediately, seemingly weighing his options. Claude is prepared for a rejection, but Felix ends up stepping aside so he can enter. 

When he does, Claude sees that his armor and weapons are piled in a disorganized heap in the corner. Felix isn’t the tidiest of he monastery residents, but he always cares for his weapons and gear. The fact that he hasn’t polished his swords and cleaned his armor is telling. Claude feels concern and uncertainty settle in his stomach, but he tries not to let too much show, lest he spook Felix into kicking him out. 

“I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now,” Claude ventures. He assumes Felix would rather not face the man who forced him to raise a sword against the late prince just before his death — the reason behind Felix’s presence on this side of the war in the first place. 

Felix sits on the bed. That, too, strikes Claude as unusual. Usually, Felix is teeming with energy, reactionary, not — this. Quiet, sitting, reflective. Instead of confirming or denying Claude’s statement, Felix asks, “Shouldn’t you be resting?” 

“I can rest and talk,” Claude tells him. He needs to sit, too, but he tries to give Felix space by turning his desk chair around and sitting in that rather than joining him on the bed. “Don’t get mad at me for asking, but are you okay?” 

“I have a few scratches. Nothing serious,” Felix tells him. 

Claude knows Felix understood his question and intentionally misinterpreted it, but he doesn’t press. He nods. “I wanted to thank you for helping me,” he says, trying to go slow and keep the main topic vague. 

“It would have been a pointless death,” Felix tells him, but as he says it, his voice catches. He clears his throat. “You still have work to do.” 

“I know it wasn’t an easy choice,” Claude continues despite his reply. 

“I made my choice long ago,” Felix states, voice quiet. “That was nothing.” 

He’s lying — Claude can see that clear as day. Not so much to Claude, but rather, to himself, as though asserting that standing between Dimitri and Claude had been easy will make it true. 

“If I had been with him —” Felix begins, tone running negative, as though he’s going to discount any potential impact he could have had on Dimitri. But before he can finish, his voice cracks and, to his apparent horror, a tear falls down his cheek. 

Felix hurries to wipe at it, the action rough and angry, and then he stands, moving to the door as though he wants to leave, but going nowhere because this is his room, and with the activity around the monastery, this is the only place that he can be alone. 

Claude knows he should leave. He knows this isn’t something Felix wants him to witness — it isn’t something that Felix wants to allow to happen. But he doesn’t think Felix should be alone right now, to bear this on his own, to suffer in silence until the guilt eats him away. 

He stands, too, but he hesitates, allowing himself to be visibly unsure. If Felix can be vulnerable in front of him, Claude can offer him the same. 

Claude decides to take another risk. He throws caution to the wind and gives Felix what he feels he needs, even if he will never ask for it. 

He takes Felix into his arms. 

As he hugs him, Felix goes stiff, but he doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t pull away. 

“I’m sorry,” Claude whispers, and he means it. He’s sorry that his early schemes have led to such consequences and he’s sorry for putting Felix in the position of choosing between two loyalties. 

Most of all, he’s sorry that Dimitri died before they could fix this — join forces, help each other, prevent all this unnecessary bloodshed. 

Claude has always believed in doing whatever it takes to survive, to win, to achieve his goals. From an entirely technical standpoint, the fact that Felix saved him should be seen as a wanted result of a scheme he didn’t realize would be so important. Objectively speaking, this should feel like success. 

But Claude has never been immune to guilt and regret, to the uncomfortable realization that he has to destroy in order to remain on his path, that casualties line the road to his dreams. He swallows those facts because he has to, not because wants to; he hides that burden because he must lead, not because it doesn’t exist. 

And Claude hadn’t wanted to hurt Felix — not again. 

Felix doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t shed any more tears. He doesn’t hug Claude back. But he slowly relaxes, silently accepting what Claude is offering. 

They stay like that for several minutes, until Claude’s still-healing injuries catch up to him and he has no choice but to pull back in favor of sitting. He chooses the bed this time, because it’s closest. “Sorry,” he apologizes for a second time that evening, allowing himself to look as remorseful as he feels. “Felt a little weak all of a sudden.” 

“Lie down then,” Felix tells him, though he avoids looking Claude in the eye. 

“Here?” Claude asks. 

Felix shrugs. “You’re already on the bed.” 

“I am,” Claude acknowledges. “Okay.” He takes off his boots and settles on the bed, which does help, a lot. It’s the first time he’s been able to lie down since their return, and as soon as he’s prone, he realizes how exhausted he is. 

Felix sits on the bed. His back is to Claude, but the action is still significant. Felix wants to be close, even if he can’t communicate that. Claude puts his hand on his back. 

“Why don’t you talk? Tell me a story or something,” Claude requests, for Felix more than for himself. 

It takes a while, but Felix eventually speaks. “My relationship with...Dimitri began before I was born...” 

And though he’s tired and sleep threatens to pull him in, Claude listens to every word. 

* * *

Felix emerges from a deep and dreamless sleep to find himself next to something warm, his hand tangled in fabric that definitely isn’t his blanket. He opens his eyes and sees Claude’s sleeping face, too close to his own, and his hand clutching Claude’s shirt. The shock of it makes him let go and sit up quickly, his mind slow to remember how he ended up in this position. 

He’s mortified at his weakness, at the fact that he was clinging to Claude like a child, and as he fully wakes up, he realizes he has a lot more to be mortified about. 

But then he remembers the events that led up to all of this, and the crushing weight of that knowledge destroys anything he might be feeling, leaving him with only guilt and anguish. 

Claude ends up stirring, too, and blinks up at Felix with mild surprise. “I fell asleep,” he murmurs. 

“Go back to sleep,” Felix tells him, trying to remember how to sound annoyed. “You’re still recovering.” 

Claude mumbles in acknowledgement. He closes his eyes and his breathing evens out again. 

Felix remains sitting. He wants to get up and do something — anything — to beat away the thoughts that begin to converge on him, but as soon as the memories of the battle at Gronder fill his mind, he ends up rooted to his spot. He thinks of Dimitri and how he looked when Felix used his name, he thinks of all the what-ifs that may have changed this outcome, and he thinks about revenge, of seeing Dimitri’s goal to the end by taking Edelgard’s head himself. He thinks of driving his blade into her body, of making her suffer — 

“Hey,” comes Claude’s voice, suddenly very alert. “Deep breaths.” He rests his hand on Felix’s back, as he had the night prior. 

Felix hadn’t realized his breathing had become shallow, quicker paced. He tries to slow it. 

“I’m going to train,” Felix tells him. But he still can’t bring himself to move. 

“In a minute,” Claude suggests, tugging at his shirt. “Rest a little longer.” 

Felix lies back down and stares at the ceiling. Claude places a hand on his chest. Felix allows him, because what’s the point of shaking him off now? After everything of the prior night, after waking up together, this seems insignificant. 

“I’ll tell you a story,” Claude suggests. 

Felix doesn’t respond, but Claude speaks anyway. His words weave a story about a rabbit, chosen by his fellow animals to be dinner for a wyvern that was terrorizing them, only to outsmart the wyvern in the end. 

“Did you just make that up?” Felix asks when the story is done, shifting to look at Claude. 

“No way, I’m not that good,” Claude replies. “It’s a story I heard growing up.” 

“It’s a stupid story,” Felix tells him. “The rabbit would have been an easy meal.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Claude tells him. 

Claude then tells him another story, and then another. Eventually, Felix falls back asleep. This time, he dreams of wyverns. 

* * *

When Felix awakens again, he feels more like himself. Enough to detangle himself from Claude a second time and actually get up to sort through the pile on his floor. And enough to level Claude with a glare once he wakes up, too. 

“Let me guess,” Claude murmurs, yawning. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.” 

Felix huffs. “You have a bed of your own. Go use it.” 

Claude smiles at him, and it looks disgustingly genuine, like hearing Felix grump at him is the best way to wake up. “And here I thought you were worried about me,” he says cheerfully. 

“You’re alive, aren’t you? What’s there to worry about?” Felix turns his attention back to the neglected pile, pulling out one of his swords. 

Claude stands with some effort, but any residual pain he feels doesn’t seem to dampen his spirits. “You know where to find me,” he announces. Then he leaves. 

Felix takes the morning to care for his swords and clean his armor. Only when everything is back in its place, having been given proper attention, does he decide he is ready to face the others. 

He visits Sylvain, first. 

“You’re looking better,” Sylvain tells him. On the surface, Sylvain is fine: smiling, his usual easygoing self. But Felix knows better. He can see the cracks, the way that grief and regret simmer just below the surface. 

“Play a game with me,” Felix says. 

“What?” Sylvain asks, his smile giving way to confusion. “What kind of game?” 

Felix walks over to his stack of board games and picks the one he knows best: the same one he and Claude played years ago. “This one.” 

“You sure?” Sylvain asks, looking as though he’s questioning whether or not Felix is in his right mind. 

“Stop asking questions and play.” 

They play five games. Felix wins two of them. With each conclusion, Sylvain begins to look a little better, as though some of the weight of the battle is being lifted from him. 

After the last one, Sylvain sits back with a whistle. “You’re better than I thought you’d be.” 

Felix snorts as he puts the game pieces away. “I let you win the first one.” 

“That,” Sylvain replies, “is a lie. You’re a horrible liar.” 

Felix shrugs and sets the game aside. They lapse into silence, which Sylvain breaks by asking, “Want to check in with Ingrid?” 

Felix stands, a silent affirmation. 

They bring food, enough to feed the three of them. At first, they talk about stupid, unimportant things. Then Mercedes and Annette show up with treats and tea and the conversation turns to Dimitri. 

They reminisce. Ingrid and Annette take turns weeping. Mercede’s voice wavers and she, too, tears up. Sylvain doesn’t openly cry, but Felix can see him quietly running a hand across his face when he thinks no one is looking. 

Felix says little, his own version of grief being complicated and harder to express without a weapon in his hand. It’s difficult for him to stay for all of this, but he does, and he tries to offer Ingrid a hand on her shoulder, Sylvain a brief pat on the back. 

The guilt doesn’t go away. The questioning, the what-ifs, the desire for revenge — that’s a pain that Felix knows will be part of him forever. He knows there is no separating himself from it — that it will change him, just as Glenn’s death had changed him all those years ago. 

But he isn’t alone in feeling that way. 

Later, after everyone goes their separate ways again, that point is driven home even further when he finds Leonie at the training grounds, holding Areadbhar. “I was looking for you,” she says, wiping her cheeks as she approaches him. “Here.” She holds out the lance. 

Felix looks at it. “Why are you giving me that?” 

“I think he’d want you to have it,” Leonie tells him. 

“You should keep it,” Felix states. 

“I don’t have a crest.” She frowns. “I can’t use it.” 

“You don’t have to use it to keep it,” Felix says. “You were with him until the end. It should be yours.” 

“Oh,” she murmurs, surprised. She pulls the lance back. “Thank you.” 

Felix turns away just as new tears begin to fall down her cheeks. 

* * *

Even later, after Felix has managed to train a little, he goes to Claude’s room and knocks on the door. 

Claude answers. Despite supposedly resting for the day, he doesn’t look any better than he had the day prior. 

“I’m coming in,” Felix tells him, and without waiting to be invited, steps inside and takes a seat on the bed. 

Claude sits beside him. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” Felix tells him. 

“Do what?” Claude asks. 

Felix looks down at the floor. “I know it bothers you, too.” He knows that Claude feels responsible for all of this, and he also knows that Claude would rather carry that in silence than share the burden. He knows that Claude wants to keep his secrets, at the cost of his own relief. 

“I’m perfectly fine,” Claude replies, and nothing in his tone betrays that. 

Felix isn’t good at carrying other people’s burdens. He isn’t good at comforting others. He doesn’t know how to be sensitive and say all the right things to make someone feel better. He has never fully understood how to break Claude’s facade, how to look at everything that Claude hides beneath the surface. Even now, Claude wears a mask and presents himself as the perfect picture of ease, because that’s what he wants Felix to see. 

“You’re still a liar,” Felix tells him. 

They fall quiet. 

Then Claude confesses, “Maybe I’m a little tired.” 

Felix shifts closer. Claude leans against him, resting his head on Felix’s shoulder. 

They stay like that for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hilda's dialogue about Dimitri's death is from canon, with minor changes.
> 
> Next time: a revelation and an overdue apology.


	13. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A revelation and an overdue apology.
> 
> Or:
> 
> "Sylvain trying to figure out the inner workings of the Felix/Claude ship." - troofless

The days following the battle at Gronder pass in a blur. Everything moves forward as it’s supposed to — _Claude_ moves forward like he’s supposed to — but Felix feels rooted in place. Every step he takes feels wrong and miscalculated. He goes to the next war council meeting, but it feels pointless and his participation flags until even Judith gives him worried glances. He then skips the following war council meeting, only to feel restless and worse off for having nothing to do. 

Through it all, Claude remains a steady and supportive presence, never once commenting on what Felix should or should not be doing. In theory, that should be a welcome change, but in actuality, Felix would rather have Claude needling him for grand plans so he could be appropriately pissed off at him and have reason to ignore him for a while. 

Instead, it’s the opposite: Felix is in his room, polishing his swords, and Claude is sitting at his desk, scribbling away at something while Felix tries and fails to get annoyed at him for being in his space more often now that they’ve broken some unspoken barrier by — and Felix _really_ hates to put it in these terms — cuddling and sharing a bed. 

It wouldn’t be as frustrating to have this deepened understanding exist between them if Felix were afforded with moments like this one, where Claude is too focused on his work to be focused on him, but such quiet is short-lived. 

As soon as Felix really starts thinking about things — the war, Dimitri, the fact that there’s a growing part of his mind that wants revenge so badly that his own values threaten to be compromised — Claude interrupts with a comment that dispels all of Felix’s thoughts. 

Felix knows this means he has a tell, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what it is, and worse than that, he can’t find it in himself to be angry with Claude over distracting him, which is perhaps the most concerning sign of all. 

And, of course, as soon as he starts mentally fretting over what _that_ means, Claude pushes back his chair, stands, and says, “Man, I’m starving. Feel like eating?” 

To which Felix replies, “No.” But he stands anyway, and they go to the dining hall together, Felix’s thoughts eclipsed by Claude all over again. 

* * *

About two weeks after Gronder, Claude leaves to visit the Alliance — alone. He calls it “official business” but doesn’t elaborate on any details, not that Felix is surprised by that. What he is surprised by is Claude’s sudden insistence that Felix attend the next couple of war council meetings. 

“I’m not putting pressure on you,” he tells Felix, the two of them standing in the stables near Claude’s white wyvern. “If you decide you want to stop attending, I won’t force you to go. But while I’m gone, I need someone to back up Teach. You’re the only one I trust to do that.” 

_Trust_. Felix makes a face. Claude laughs. 

“You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true.” 

“Fine,” Felix replies. “She needs all the help she can get.” 

Claude’s expression softens, the laugh melting away, replaced by a fondness that makes Felix drop his gaze. “Hey,” Claude murmurs, trying to get Felix to look up again. 

Felix refuses to look Claude in the eye, but he bites out, “What?” 

Claude pauses. The silence feels heavy. Felix finally looks up. 

“Forgot what I was going to say,” Claude lies, shrugging as though sheepish. 

“Some Master Tactician you are, forgetting words one minute to the next,” Felix gripes, but there’s no heat in his tone. His chest feels tight. 

“Don’t tell anyone.” Claude winks. “It can be our secret.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Felix mutters. 

Claude touches him — sets his hand on his shoulder, allows it to linger, then lightly squeezes. Felix feels uncomfortable, simultaneously warm and cold, breath catching in his chest. He glares, but he doesn’t pull away. 

“I’ll be back,” Claude tells him, like it’s a promise. 

“I know that,” Felix replies, because it’s a given. 

He thinks about putting his hand over Claude’s, but Claude pulls away before he can even chide himself for the frivolous thought. 

* * *

“I’m still upset,” Ingrid says to Felix and Sylvain later that night, long after Claude has departed. 

They sit in the dining hall. Felix’s appetite is spotty at best, but he eats anyway, rotely shoving food into his mouth. 

He doesn’t answer. Neither does Sylvain. So Ingrid continues. “We had a right to know. Maybe we could have talked to him —” 

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Felix interjects. 

“You don’t know that,” Ingrid argues, her voice turning angry. 

“Leonie said —” Sylvain tries to explain, but Ingrid cuts him off. 

“Leonie didn’t know him like we did,” she continues to argue. “If one of us had been on that side of the field —” 

“He would have attacked us,” Felix finishes for her. 

Sylvain looks at him, then, new understanding in his eyes. 

“Don’t say that!” Ingrid exclaims, the volume of her voice rising. 

“Ingrid,” Sylvain warns. 

“Stop acting like you know what he would have done!” 

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says again. 

“He wasn’t the beast that you made him out to be!” 

“_Ingrid_,” Sylvain says, stronger this time. 

“What?!” she yells, turning her glare on him. 

Sylvain looks at Felix. Ingrid follows his stare, looking back at Felix. “What?” she asks again, more subdued. 

“I knew it,” Sylvain says quietly. “You were next to me, and then you disappeared.” 

“Wait,” Ingrid murmurs, trying to catch up to the shift in conversation. “You...you saw him?” 

Felix can no longer stomach his food. He shoves his plate back, disgusted with the idea of eating. 

“Felix,” Sylvain prompts, keeping his tone gentle. 

“Claude was right to keep you back,” Felix tells them. He feels sick to admit it, to think back to that battle, to _Dimitri_ and what he had to do to keep him from attacking Claude. To that split second of a moment where Dimitri almost seemed like he could be reasoned with. Had he lived — had the battle been less chaotic — 

By keeping them away from Dimitri, Claude had not only kept his own forces from crumbling with the revelation that presumed-dead prince was still alive, but they also allowed them to keep an untarnished image of Dimitri in their memories. They didn’t have to see him as a beast in his final moments — raising his lance against someone who wasn’t an enemy. 

That version of Dimitri had always been Felix’s burden. He alone would carry it. 

“It wasn’t his choice to make,” Ingrid still protests, though she has deflated, all of the anger draining from her tone. “Sylvain,” she urges, trying to get him to agree. 

“I don’t know,” Sylvain replies, his eyes still on Felix. 

Felix looks at the uneaten food on his plate. 

“I don’t know,” Sylvain admits again. 

* * *

Claude returns with more secrets. Felix knows this, because he doesn’t knock on his door with an armful of correspondence and documents to pass the night. 

Felix doesn’t knock on his door, either. 

It’s easy to avoid thinking about metaphorical distance when there’s no physical distance between them, so Felix decides to keep attending the war council meetings after all. He resumes his participation, too, because he can only stand to hear so many stupid ideas passed across the table before his annoyance gets the best of him. 

Then they go to battle at Fort Merceus. Claude reveals that he visited the Alliance to secure Almyran reinforcements. The Fort is destroyed by javelins of light. 

All of that would be enough to unpack as it is, but after they return from the now-destroyed Fort, Sylvain brings Felix another revelation. 

He knocks on Felix’s door with a board game — the same one Felix chose to play after Gronder — and asks if he’s interested in playing. Felix agrees, and they pass the time with a few games while making unimportant conversation. 

After Sylvain wins a third time — he’s obviously been brushing up on his board game skills now that he knows Felix is more willing to play these days — he says, casually, “So that’s one mystery solved.” 

“What mystery?” Felix asks, clearing the board of their pieces, then putting one of his pieces on the board, starting a new game. 

“The mystery of where Claude came from,” Sylvain replies, making a move with one of his pieces. 

Felix looks up. “You figured that out?” 

“Felix,” Sylvain says, exasperated but also amused. “Come on.” 

“What?” Felix asks. He hates talking in circles. “Just say it.” 

“Think about it.” Sylvain leans back, forgoing the game in favor of this conversation. “Almyra and the Alliance are always in conflict, but all of a sudden, Claude was able to convince them to support his cause? Just like that? And not civilians, but an _army_. That ‘undefeated’ guy seemed pretty important.” 

Nardel, also known as Nader, whom Claude had appointed his retainer — whom Felix had met months ago. At that time, Claude had said, _He isn’t from Fódlan,_ and had waited for Felix to respond, as though bracing himself for a reaction. 

“He’s Almyran,” Felix realizes out loud, feeling stupid for not realizing it sooner. He doesn’t know much about Almyra since it has little to do with Faerghus and therefore wasn’t in the Fraldarius political curriculum, but Sylvain is right. After Claude revealed that the Almyran troops were providing aid, he should have realized. 

“Not just any Almyran, either. Someone with enough pull to convince them to fight for him.” 

This is a piece of a long-unsolved puzzle. Felix finally feels as though he’s made a breakthrough in understanding Claude. He may not know much about Almyra, and he may not have the same worldly perspective as Sylvain, whose territory borders Sreng, but Felix knows enough to realize that Claude’s background was a good reason to keep secrets. 

Sylvain watches him process this. “Everything kind of makes sense now, doesn’t it?” he asks softly, careful not to define the _everything_ to which he is referring. 

Felix stands. “I’m done playing,” he says, and leaves before Sylvain has a chance to respond. 

* * *

For the first time in a long time, Claude is holed up in the library, trying to research anything he can about the type of magic that would allow highly destructive javelins of light to fall from the sky. He predictably finds absolutely nothing on the topic, but the act of researching is a familiar comfort he rarely has the time to indulge these days, so he decides to stick to it for a while longer. 

At least, that _was_ the plan. 

He is interrupted by Felix, who stalks into the library as though he has a fresh argument on his mind, his expression set in familiar determination. For once, Claude isn’t sure where this is coming from, and in a way, that makes this encounter a little more appealing. It’s been a while since Felix has gotten on his case — he wouldn’t mind a little diversion. 

Only Felix doesn’t yell at him. Instead, he pulls one of his swords and tosses it down at Claude’s feet. 

“Pick it up.” 

“Are you challenging me to a duel?” Claude asks, briefly eyeing the sword, then raising his eyebrows at Felix. “You could just ask. No need for the theatrics.” Not that Claude minds — a small, amused smile tugs at his lips. 

Felix remains serious. “You owe me a rematch.” 

“I do?” Claude asks, still teasing. 

“And an apology.” 

Oh. 

He loses the smile and all amusement, both of which are replaced by uncertainty and an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach — nervousness, maybe, or regret. Or both. Feelings that were supposed to fade with the follies of his youth, brought back into the open. 

He’s careful to remain outwardly neutral. “Why now?” 

“You know why.” 

Claude appreciates that the people around him seem to think that he knows everything, because that helps his image and his goals, but the reality is he is far from all-knowing. And there’s one person in all of Garreg Mach who would gladly call him out on that — the same person who is now trying to use Claude’s persona as a shield for himself by shirking explanation and putting it back on Claude. 

“I don’t,” Claude insists. 

He does, however, have guesses, and none of them are pleasant. 

“Pick it up,” Felix says again. 

“If you insist,” Claude answers with feigned disinterest, bending to pick up the sword. “But can we do this somewhere else? I don’t want to ruin any books.” 

Felix stalks out of the library with the same energy as he had upon entering. He leads Claude in silence until they are beyond the monastery walls, in a wooded area, likely close to where they conducted their first sparring match all those years ago. 

Felix raises his sword. Claude hesitates. 

“Why don’t I just tell you I’m sorry, without all of this?” Claude suggests. “I was —” 

But Felix attacks. 

He’s sloppy. Claude sees that before he even raises his sword to block the attack. Felix has always erred on the side of emotional, even if his emotions usually consist of different shades of angry and annoyed, but this is different. Felix is uncoordinated in a way that is so unlike him, Claude’s own emotions war with each other until concern takes precedence. 

“Felix —” he tries to say, but then Felix strikes again, and Claude is forced to shut up and parry. 

It goes on like this for some time — Felix attacking, Claude maintaining defense without really doing much by way of attacking him back — until Claude finally decides he needs to work this to closure. He sweeps his way through a combat art that he knows Felix will recognize, then attacks. 

Felix attempts to block it too late. He’s successful in avoiding the blade, but he loses his footing. Claude attacks again, Felix trips, lands gracelessly on the ground, and glares up at Claude. Claude holds the point of the blade to his throat. 

“You threw the match,” he accuses. “If you’re going to pull that, you could at least put on a better show.” 

“Why did you do it?” Felix asks from where he sits panting on the ground. He doesn’t move away from the tip of the blade, and Claude, perhaps in an effort to keep Felix at a distance, both figuratively and literally, doesn’t pull back the sword. 

“People do dumb stuff when they’re young. But for what it’s worth —” 

“Horseshit,” Felix snaps. “Don’t apologize until you’re ready to tell the truth.” 

“That _is_ the truth.” In part, but a partial truth is enough to make the statement factual. 

“You were afraid,” Felix says, all derision and disappointment as he narrows his eyes. “You’re afraid now.” 

Claude laughs, because Felix is right. “It’s hard to be afraid when I’m holding a sword to your throat.” 

Felix moves to stand, and the action causes him to press against the sword tip. Claude pulls it back before he hurts himself. “What are you trying to do?” he asks, by which he means, _What do you want from me? Why are you doing this? Why now?_

“You’re Almyran,” Felix says. 

Claude loses words. His body goes cold. There’s a rushing in his ears, a blanking of his mind as he processes the accusation. 

He knew this was a conclusion that some might reach, given his stunt with Nader and the Almyran forces. But he didn’t think Felix would be the one to arrive at it — at least not this soon. Not yet. Still, he had prepared himself for this conversation, so he should take it in stride. But the moment those words are free of Felix’s lips, Claude forgets everything he meant to say in response to them. 

So he just says, “Ah.” 

Felix approaches him. Claude feels vulnerable in an unfamiliar way. He has to resist the desire to close his eyes. 

“You were afraid,” Felix says, his voice losing intensity. 

“Maybe a little,” Claude offers. 

Felix is close. Claude focuses on breathing in and out. He tries to remain outwardly unaffected. 

“You’re afraid now,” Felix says quietly, voice now soft. 

“You’re not _that_ scary,” Claude informs him. 

“Liar,” Felix accuses. 

Then Felix kisses him. 

He expects Felix to kiss with the same fervor with which he fought — he expects anger and irritation, the roughness he remembers of the last and only time Felix attempted to initiate a kiss. He expects to be treated as crudely as Felix seems to want to treat the world, with a preemptive defensive onslaught of lip and tongue. 

What he gets is something else entirely. Felix is gentle, careful in the way he allows his lips to make contact, the kiss initially so chaste and unassuming that it leaves Claude breathless. When Felix touches him — brushes fingers along his cheek before easing through his hair and coming to rest at the back of his head — Claude parts his lips to give silent permission for more. 

Claude has wanted this — has thought about it, more often than he should have — but every time he envisioned it, Felix was all roaming hands, all bottled up passion and frustrated anger. He never pictured Felix as patient and tender, nor did he expect that Felix would initiate, not after how Claude treated him the last time they kissed. 

He doesn’t know what to do with this information, so he tries to enjoy it in an uncomplicated way. He focuses on Felix’s tongue, how it moves against his long enough to leave Claude yearning for more, but doesn’t linger. Felix only allows fleeting contact before he transitions to closing his lips against Claude’s, and then he pulls back. 

Claude opens his eyes. Felix allows him to look into his for a moment, a silent offering, before he finally pulls completely away, turning to hide the way color creeps up his neck and his initial confidence bleeds into the realization of what he has done. 

Meanwhile, Claude is happy for the momentary privacy, because he has to collect himself long enough to avoid gaping or openly vying for more. He subtly clears his throat, adjusts his clothing, anything to try and get his mind off of the fact that Felix, in one grand move, essentially unmasked him and then kissed the person he knew to be underneath. 

“I didn’t expect that,” Claude admits out loud. 

Felix grumbles something wordless and embarrassed. 

“You stole my thunder,” Claude adds. 

Felix turns to look at him, then, confused by the comment. 

“I was supposed to apologize,” Claude reminds him. 

Felix shrugs. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“It does.” Claude moves so that he’s once more fully facing Felix, who has rediscovered his issue with eye contact. “I’m sorry,” Claude tells him. “I really am.” 

Felix looks pointedly at the ground. “It was a long time ago.” 

“I mean,” Claude begins with a hint of a teasing lilt, “it’s obvious it was on your mind.” 

“Shut up,” Felix grumbles. 

Claude touches his cheek, then rests his fingers along Felix’s jaw. He leans in and kisses him, now taking the initiative himself. It’s a test — an attempt to find regret or retroactive disgust. But Felix accepts the kiss, responding to it without bristling or rejecting. 

He kisses Claude back as though he wants more. 

When Claude pulls back, Felix looks flushed and embarrassed all over again, but calmly so. 

“We can’t get distracted,” Felix says. 

“That’s my line,” Claude replies, because that same statement had been on his mind. War provides little time for budding emotions, and when the war is won, Claude will leave in pursuit of his dreams. There’s no middle ground, no compromise to allow for feelings to take root and grow into something more. 

If they continue this, there are only two paths they can take: one that ends in heartbreak and one that ends Claude’s dreams. Claude may have decided not to sabotage trust or make Felix regret his newly established loyalty, but that doesn’t mean they can give into these feelings. 

“We won’t,” Felix decides out loud, tone firm and unyielding. 

“I’m not worried,” Claude replies, even though he the continuous destruction of the barriers that exist between them gives him plenty with which to concern himself. 

With that, they head back to the monastery, walking side-by-side, careful not to touch as they return to their responsibilities. 

Despite the way they part — wordless, barely a glance in each other’s directions — Claude can’t help but feel a little warmer for all that transpired between them. 

It is, after all, the first time anyone has simply accepted him despite knowing his background. 

And even though it ends there, Claude will carry that feeling close to his heart. 

* * *

As Felix heads back to his room, he grows increasingly furious at himself. When he challenged Claude, he had intended for the fight to be fair. He wanted Claude to truly earn his right to apologize, if he could. If he could not, Felix would have let it go, perhaps with the promise of yet another rematch, as he had five years ago. He had not intended to throw the match, because Felix never, _ever_ willingly loses. 

But as soon as he saw the slight shift Claude’s expression, he faltered. Claude tried to hide it, but Felix has been spending way too much time around him not to have seen Claude’s barely discernible concern, the way he dreaded the conversational path their rematch would put them on. And then Felix somehow became the biggest idiot in Garreg Mach and not only threw the fight, but did it so poorly that it would have been obvious to even the least skilled observer, so they could finally put the issue to rest. 

And then, as if that weren’t enough of a stain on his normal operating procedures, he had also — 

No, he decides as he walks up to his door. He isn’t going to think about that. It’s done and over with. He needs to refocus on his war efforts. 

War is supposed to make men hard, not soft, he grimly reminds himself as he opens his door. 

Upon doing so, he finds Sylvain is still there, lounging on his bed, reading one of his old student books. 

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” he states, setting the book aside and sitting up. 

“Why are you still here?” Felix asks. 

“We were in the middle of a game.” Sylvain gestures to the floor, where the board game is waiting. 

Felix sits on the floor. He places one of his pieces, paying little attention to strategy. “Go,” he tells Sylvain. 

Sylvain doesn’t join him. “What happened?” 

“Nothing,” Felix says, annoyed. “Go.” 

Sylvain still doesn’t leave the bed. “You know, I never understood what you saw in Claude.” 

“Sylvain,” Felix warns. 

“He’s like a more disciplined version of me, and I think we all know I’m no picnic.” 

“Sylvain,” Felix warns again, firmer this time. 

“But the more I think about what he pulled at Gronder, the more I think he was probably right in trying to keep us away from Dimitri, and when I heard that having so many of us on the other side of the field nearly got him killed, I could _almost_ see it. Almost.” 

“Get out,” Felix tells him. He swipes all the pieces off the board, ending the game that Sylvain isn’t even playing. 

“Aw, come on. I’m trying to give you my blessing.” 

“There’s nothing to bless. Now get out.” 

“Wait a minute,” Sylvain leans forward now, ignoring Felix’s wishes. “Are you telling me you didn’t spend the past hour making up with Claude?” 

Felix glares at him with every ounce of intensity he can muster. 

Sylvain sighs. “Fine,” he replies, though his tone is mild, “don't tell me anything.” 

“Leave,” Felix tells him. 

This time, Sylvain listens. 

* * *

Claude is back in the library, once again looking for information he will never find, trying to recalibrate his mind so that it stops thinking about Felix and starts thinking about the very real threats that still exist in this war. He selects a book, opens it, and turns to a page — 

“Don’t tell me,” calls Sylvain as he saunters into the library to take up the seat closest to Claude. He turns the chair so it faces him. “You’re still in the business of self-sabotaging.” 

“This may come as a shock to you,” Claude replies without missing a beat, “but conducting research isn’t a form of self-sabotage.” 

“In the right hands,” Sylvain replies, smiling, “anything can be self-sabotaging behavior.” 

Claude matches his smile. “You would know.” 

“I would,” Sylvain replies. “But in that department, you’ve got me beat.” 

“How can you be sure?” Claude asks, putting the book back so he can give Sylvain his full attention. 

Instead of answering, Sylvain says, “That was a great speech you gave about busting down Fódlan’s walls. Must be tough to carry all those aspirations on your shoulders.” 

With that comment, Claude now knows who was behind Felix’s realization. Were he not so surprised by Felix’s behavior, he would have arrived at that conclusion sooner. Sylvain has always been more discerning than he lets on. 

“Not as tough as it is to carry years of Srengian mistreatment,” he counters. “You must be tired.” 

Sylvain doesn’t respond immediately. His smile loses its luster. Then he drops it entirely. “Maybe I am.” 

“Okay.” Claude exhales, also dropping his smile, relaxing as the tension between them dissipates. He takes a seat next to Sylvain. “That’s a start.” 

Sylvain shakes his head. “Wait. That’s not what I’m here to talk about.” 

“Maybe,” Claude suggests, “you should worry less about Felix and more about yourself.” 

Sylvain huffs out a humorless laugh. “You’re a bastard, you know that?” 

Claude ignores that. “What do you want to do when the war is over?” 

“If I survive, you mean?” Sylvain asks. 

“_When_ you survive,” Claude insists. “The power of positive thinking.” 

“When,” Sylvain repeats, tone bitter. 

“When,” Claude repeats, pressing him on. 

And maybe this is what Sylvain really wanted to talk about, whether he realized it or not, because that's all the prompting he needs. Instead of furthering their banter, Sylvain talks about House Gautier’s history and the burden of the north. He shares his thoughts on Sreng, demonstrating that his point of view is more educated and sensitive than Claude initially anticipated. Claude listens and volunteers what he can as far as suggestions go, though he needs more detailed information on the situation to really delve into strategy. 

They don’t reach any definitive conclusions, but when the conversation ends, Sylvain gives him a smile that seems a little less fake than his usual grins. And when Claude says, “We should talk more about this later,” Sylvain nods his agreement. 

When they part, it feels as though they do so as friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: A confession.


	14. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Partial truths, confessions, and acceptance.

Claude is skilled at denying himself the things he desires. He learned at a young age that the short-term benefits of his immediate wants would affect the pursuit of his long-term needs. Flaunt his father’s status to stave off ridicule, and he’d eventually find himself narrowly escaping assassination. Throw his mother’s bravery in the face of hate, and _she’d_ eventually find herself narrowly escaping assassination. Deny himself the instant satisfaction of pride in order to survive by any means necessary, and he would get to live another day. 

Despite how acquainted Claude has become with putting aside his own desires to achieve his dreams, he has to admit that Felix may actually have him beat. Whereas Claude’s decision to cut off short-term satisfaction comes from the pursuit of a lofty goal, Felix’s denial of pleasure seems to be ingrained in his very core. 

Felix doesn’t cast Claude longing glances or brush against him in meaningful ways when exchanging documents or parting after a war council meeting. He slides right back into business as usual, treating Claude in his usual gruff manner. Were it not for the fact that Claude was there when it happened, he would be hard-pressed to believe that Felix kissed him in the first place. 

Similarly, Claude returns to focusing on the war and casting his usual smiles, occasionally offering an empty and neutral tease to keep up appearances. He is good at this game, too, but even he has to permit himself the occasional glance in Felix’s direction, the slight straying of his thoughts, another visit to Felix’s room late one evening. 

Still, they stay focused on their respective duties, especially once Enbarr is set as their next destination. Felix trains, Claude plans, they hold more frequent war council meetings, and they orbit each other without fanfare. 

And if Claude were honest — truly honest, no strings attached — he would admit that somewhere deep inside, this drastic return to the status quo does not sit right with him. Now that he has experienced a moment of acceptance, something he never would have believed would have been handed over to him freely, he wants to have that again. Even deeper within his mind — within a quieter, more insecure place that he normally keeps locked down — he wonders if Felix might regret the moment that has come to mean far too much to Claude. 

Were it anyone else, Claude could accept that — swallow all his feelings and move on. But his relationship with Felix has evolved to such an extent that the situation is now out of hand. Instead of successfully suppressing his feelings, he finds they threaten to take over his thoughts. 

But there are, as always, more important matters at hand; so he, as always, acts as though everything is working out exactly as he planned. 

Even this. 

* * *

Sitting alone the Cardinal’s Room, Claude sighs as he rubs his eyes, which have grown uncomfortably dry after staring at maps and scribbled formations for the attack on Enbarr. It’s late — the moon is likely well-past the zenith — and he should take a break for some sleep, but he’s nearly finished with the plans he wants to present during the following day’s war council meeting. 

Because it is so late, he’s surprised to hear someone approach from the hall. He’s even more surprised when that someone ends up being Ingrid, looking as tired as Claude feels, but wearing an expression of determination that reminds him a little of Felix when he has an argument on his mind. 

“Ingrid,” he greets her with a smile, though he now regrets failing to turn in at a reasonable hour. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I’d like to talk,” she states, taking a seat adjacent to him. As she does so, her eyes dip to glance at the papers before him. “I didn’t expect to find you still working.” 

“Oh, this?” Claude asks with a sweep of his hand. “Hardly work. More like a hobby.” 

Ingrid hums, low and considering. “I remember when I thought you were a poor leader.” 

“You and many others,” Claude replies, tidying up the pile of papers since he will definitely be on his way to his room after this conversation ends. 

“I’m willing to admit when I’m wrong,” Ingrid tells him. 

Claude looks up from his papers. “It’s no big deal. That was years ago.” 

“It’s important,” Ingrid presses, straightening in her seat. “You’ve proven to be a good leader and I can tell that you want what’s best for Fódlan.” 

Claude senses a _but_ in that statement, so he waits a moment before responding. Ingrid, however, seems to want him to respond first, and therefore doesn’t offer more. So Claude says, “Thanks, but again, that isn’t necessary.” 

“I’m sorry for thinking so harshly of you,” she continues despite his protests. 

“It’s fine,” Claude says with a shrug, trying to dismiss the weight of this interaction. “No hard feelings.” It’s true — he has never blamed Ingrid for her opinions, considering that the way he was perceived in the past was due to his own cultivation of his appearances and behaviors. He knows he didn’t inspire trust back then. He has only recently come to terms with the fact that he inspires trust now. 

“Good.” She takes a breath, then exhales slowly before continuing. “Are you willing to admit your wrongdoings?” 

And there it is. “Sometimes,” he replies, which is a simple but honest response. 

“What about now?” she asks. Her expression grows a little tighter, hardening around the emotion that threatens to leak through. 

Claude can guess what this is really about. “Ingrid,” he begins, keeping his voice soft, because he knows that this is a difficult conversation for her, and she may not like what he has to say. “I had to make a quick decision. And after what we saw on the other side of the field, I still feel I made the right one.” 

“After _who_ you saw,” she corrects, anger leaking through. “It wasn’t your choice to make.” 

“It was,” Claude argues, though he speaks quietly. “It’s my job to make those tough decisions, even if they come with a cost. And even if it means some will come to hate me for it.” 

She looks furious, but her words, angrily spoken as they are, don’t match her tone. “I don’t hate you.” 

“Oh?” he asks in mild surprise. “It’s okay if you do, really.” He expects it, to some degree, especially from her. 

“I don’t,” she insists. “I know that leading an army means making difficult decisions and as long as I am fighting in this war, I will continue to follow orders.” Her tone is still harsh, but she clears her throat and regains composure. “I trust your leadership. But keeping us away like that...” 

Claude still believes he made the right decision, for many reasons, some selfish and some for the sake of the former Blue Lions. He won’t blatantly lie by saying otherwise to Ingrid, because she _is_ placing her faith with him, despite everything that transpired at Gronder. She deserves better than that. 

What he can offer is this: “I’m sorry.” And he is. He’s sorry that he had to make that choice, and he’s sorry that the battle at Gronder played out the way it did. He’s sorry that so many are still suffering in the aftermath. 

Ingrid nods. “Good.” For a moment she looks like she wants to say more, but instead she stands and offers a parting, “Get some rest,” before leaving him alone once more. 

* * *

A few days before they depart to Enbarr, everyone gathers in the Golden Deer classroom, as they had five years ago, at the brink of war. They bring blankets and pillows, drag together tables, and set up snacks. Raphael samples the meat dishes while Annette and Mercedes lay out baked treats. Marianne and Sylvain talk, Ingrid takes a seat next to Leonie, and Hilda rolls her eyes at Lorenz. Ignatz watches the group activity with a sketchbook in hand. Eventually, nearly the whole group is gathered, discussing trivial matters and having a good time. 

Claude arrives late. By the time he enters the room, everyone has moved from the tables to the floor, seated in a circle. There’s an empty spot between Felix and Hilda, and it’s obvious that the gap was intentionally left open for him. Claude takes a seat. Hilda smiles and bumps her shoulder against his in greeting. Felix meets his eyes briefly before turning his attention back on the conversation. 

“— my little sis!” Raphael is in the process of exclaiming. “What about you, Ingrid?” 

Next to him, Ingrid says, “My dream has always been to be a knight. I still want that.” She smiles wistfully. “I think I can achieve that dream now.” 

They continue along the circle. From the various statements, Claude surmises that they are discussing their plans for after the war, now that there is an end in sight. Each comment is hopeful, as though everyone is choosing to believe in an after now that they are so close to victory. 

“I’m going back to my territory after this,” Sylvain, on the opposite side of Felix, explains when it’s his turn. “Do some good, for once.” 

Claude can sense a change in Felix’s body language at that response — surprise, maybe, based on the way he subtly perks up. Sylvain looks at Felix and smiles, and a moment of silence communication passes between them. Then he says, “Your turn.” 

“I’m going to keep fighting,” is Felix’s curt response, delivered without further explanation. 

“Wait,” Hilda calls out. “We’re talking about _after_ the war.” 

“Yeah.” Sylvain nudges Felix. “When the fighting is over.” 

“You heard me.” 

Claude has to resist the urge to frown — he has to keep himself from putting a hand on Felix’s shoulder and asking him to reconsider. All these months, Felix has proven himself to be so much more than his sword. He knows that Felix can see it, too. But he swallows any response he may want to give, because that is a matter to be discussed privately. 

A few other words of surprise and protest are offered up by the group, but Felix ignores them and looks at Claude. “You go.” 

“I’m thinking I might do some traveling,” Claude says lightly. It’s a partial truth, of course. He will be traveling to a very specific destination to fight a very different battle. But it still isn’t time for such confessions. 

“It will be difficult to find time to travel when we are rebuilding Fódlan,” Lorenz says, a chide in his tone. “Your responsibilities must come first.” 

“True,” Claude replies, because Lorenz is correct about his responsibilities, just not in the way he assumes. “Guess we’ll see when the time comes.” 

Lorenz appears to want to protest again, but Hilda cuts him off. “My turn,” she says with a pointed look, and then goes into great detail about all the non-work related tasks in which she plans on indulging once the fighting is finally over. 

After everyone has shared their plans, the topic transitions to other, lighter matters. They all sit together late into the night, until their conversations are punctuated by yawns and long blinks. Beside Claude, Felix begins to nod off. Being an early riser and filling all of his free time with training, he has less stamina for staying awake than many of the others. 

As his head droops, Claude shifts a little closer, playing it off like he’s adjusting for his own comfort. Eventually, Felix is leaning against him, head coming to rest on his shoulder. 

He isn’t the only one. Soon after, Annette settles her head in Mercedes’ lap and begins to doze. Raphael gently nudges Lysithea, who is falling asleep in a corner of the room, and offers to walk her back to the dorms. Ingrid begins to fall asleep but catches herself and stands to turn in for the night. 

Eventually, everyone has either dispersed or fallen asleep, save for Claude, Sylvain, and Ignatz, who continues to work in his sketchbook. 

“Want me to wake him?” Sylvain whispers. “Spare you the attitude?” He grins as he says it, knowing full-well Claude will turn him down. 

“Nah,” Claude replies. “I can take it.” 

Sylvain chuckles and gets to his feet. “Good luck.” 

As he leaves, Ignatz stands, too, and approaches Claude. “Here,” he says, a little shyly, holding out a sheet of paper. 

Careful not to jostle Felix, Claude takes it from him. On the paper is a sketch of himself, with Felix asleep on his shoulder. It’s very well done, the details startlingly true to real life. Felix looks at peace and Claude looks...openly happy. Claude has to wonder if Ignatz took some artistic liberties with their expressions. 

“Maybe...don’t show Felix,” Ignatz suggests sheepishly. “I don’t think he appreciates art...like that.” 

Art featuring himself in such a vulnerable position, Ignatz means, and he’s probably right. Claude smiles at him. “This is very good. I might commission you one day.” 

“Really?” Ignatz asks, hope in his tone. 

Claude nods. “After the war sometime. We can talk about it.” 

Ignatz looks absolutely overjoyed at the prospect. “Thank you, Claude,” he says. 

“No, thank you for this.” Claude tucks the sketch safely away into his clothing, careful not to accidentally wake Felix in the process. 

After Ignatz leaves, Claude is the only one left awake. He savors the quiet for a few minutes, listening only to Felix’s deep breathing against him. The rhythmic quality, coupled with the warmth of Felix’s body against his, nearly lulls him into sleep, which is his cue to finally wake Felix. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “Felix.” He attempts to gently extract himself, moving carefully so that Felix doesn’t pitch toward the floor. 

Felix stirs, slowly at first, but as soon as he realizes that Claude is essentially holding him up, he sits up quickly, rubbing his eyes and attempting to jolt himself into full awareness. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asks, voice rough with sleep. 

“I just did,” Claude points out with a small smile. 

Felix tries to glare at him, but he looks too tired to make it hold any weight. He runs his hand over his face. “How long was I out?” 

“Not too long.” 

Felix huffs, as though disbelieving, then yawns against his hand. 

“Go to bed,” Claude tells him. “You’re so tired, you can’t bring yourself to glare at me.” 

“I’m glaring just fine,” Felix argues, though he isn’t glaring at all as he says it. He stands to follow through on Claude’s advice, but pauses before leaving. “You need sleep, too.” 

“I’m working my way to it,” Claude promises. “I’m not an early riser like you.” 

“My room is next to yours,” Felix points out flatly, meaning he knows that Claude is usually awake bright and early, just as he is. 

“Maybe I sleep walk.” 

“I doubt that you’re sleeping when you’re banging around like you can’t find anything in that messy room,” Felix says. 

“I can do a lot of things in my sleep,” Claude replies. “I happen to be very talented.” 

Disbelief and annoyance pass over Felix’s face, but when he exhales, the breath he releases almost sounds like it could be a laugh. 

“Talented in telling tall tales.” 

“That too,” Claude admits as he gets to his feet. “Anyway, I’m not the one who gets grumpy if I don’t get my beauty rest.” 

On cue, Felix transitions into annoyance and he looks as though he wants to argue, but he seems to bite it back in favor of not answering at all. He doesn’t leave, though, and instead waits until Claude joins him. Then they walk out into the night together. 

Claude decides to go back to the dorms after all, if only to walk with Felix a little longer. And Felix, perhaps too groggy to keep himself in check, brushes his hand against Claude’s as they walk. 

* * *

It would surprise no one to learn that Hilda Valentine Goneril is still not a morning person. Sure, she now has _a lot_ of responsibility on her shoulders and many reasons to wake up bright and early, but that doesn’t mean she likes it. On the contrary, she dislikes it very much, thank you, and would rather shut out the world for a few extra hours then immediately dress herself and tend to her work. 

And yet, waking up bright and early is exactly what she finds herself doing these days, albeit without any level of good mood until after she’s had her morning tea. She groans and mentally complains (and even sometimes outwardly complains), but she always rises early and gets started on her day because she knows that everyone is depending on her — especially Claude. And no matter how often she may express her love for not working, she isn’t going to let anyone down. 

She happens to know that one Felix Hugo Fraldarius is also an early riser, because he’s usually up and on his way to the training grounds when Hilda is mentally preparing herself for the day. That’s why she knows that when she knocks on his door first thing in the morning, he will already be awake. 

He answers, already dressed, but clearly in the middle of putting up his hair, comb in hand as he opens the door. “What?” he greets her, which causes her to smile because at this point, she’s grown fond of Felix’s attitude. It wouldn’t be the same if he greeted her as though he was happy to see her. 

“Good morning to you, too. Can I come in?” 

He sighs, clearly grumpier than usual — she assumes due to the late night they all had — but he steps aside and allows her to enter. 

“Thanks!” she exclaims cheerfully as he shuts the door. 

“What do you want?” he asks. 

“To do your hair! Looks like I came at the right time.” 

He looks surprised for a moment, then scowls. “Why would I let you do that?” 

“Um, for old time’s sake, of course.” She smiles, then reaches in her pocket and pulls out the real reason she’s paying him a visit. “And because I made you this.” Holding out her palm, she shows him what she’s brought him — a hair tie very similar to the one he borrowed from her years ago, only black in color and, instead of a flower, this one has a small sword adornment. 

“Why?” he asks, because Felix can’t ever allow himself to enjoy something simple. 

She clicks her tongue. “Because we’re friends, silly. Friends do nice things for each other.” 

He looks away, as though he’s uncomfortable with her honest admission. “I don’t need it.” 

“It’s not about whether you need it or not,” she tells him. “Are you being obtuse on purpose? I think you are.” Her tone is fond, though. If the upcoming battle at Enbarr is truly their last, moments like these will be rare. She knows she’ll miss Felix’s bluster. 

“Fine, I’ll take it.” He holds out his hand. 

“Nope! Sorry, you have to let me do it. That’s my condition.” 

“Who puts conditions on gifts?” Felix asks, though he doesn’t sound nearly as annoyed as Hilda thinks he wants to. 

“You do know who our leader is, right?” she teases. “We learned from the best.” 

“We,” he repeats with mild annoyance, but he sits in his chair and hands over the comb. 

She takes it and starts combing his hair, working on figuring out his annoying multiple parts, biting her tongue to keep herself from teasing him for his complicated hairstyle when all he supposedly cares about are his swords. “Yes, we. I happen to know you play games of your own, too.” 

He doesn’t respond to that, so Hilda transitions the conversation. “I know it isn’t any of my business” she begins, “but it sure seems like a lot of work to do all this fighting now just to do more fighting when we’re done.” 

“There’s always a reason to fight,” he tells her. 

“Sure, sure. Someone’s bound to be causing trouble somewhere. I can’t argue with that. But...” She gently works the comb through a tangle in his hair. “You can at least take a break when we’re done here. I’m only doing all this annoying work now so I can actually relax one day.” 

“I’m not you,” Felix snaps, a little harshly, but Hilda is undeterred by his simmering anger. 

“Look,” she says, allowing her own tone to grow somewhat firm. “I’m not suggesting that you stop fighting. What I’m trying to say is, maybe consider that instead of living to fight, you can fight to live. Or something like that, anyway.” 

“You don’t understand,” he mutters as she gathers his hair so she can wrap the tie around it. 

“Actually, I think I do. Fighting is part of who you are, right?” He doesn’t respond, so she continues. “That’s okay. But it doesn’t mean you have to deny yourself a little bit of joy, even if that joy is fleeting.” 

He’s quiet for a long moment, during which Hilda finishes putting up his hair. The tie looks cute, but appropriately subtle. It won’t draw attention, but if someone happens to look at it, they’ll see the little sword poking out from his hair. 

Then Felix says, “This isn’t just about my plans for after the war, is it?” 

She pats him on the shoulders. “I knew you’d get it.” 

* * *

Felix is skilled at convincing himself he doesn’t want things. He doesn’t want romance, because it will interfere with focus on fighting — on getting stronger and surpassing others. He doesn’t want dreams, because lofty goals and ideals lead to pointless deaths. All he wants, he reminds himself as he beats yet another training dummy into submission, is to keep fighting and improving. 

It isn’t only about cutting out distracting desires, but also about removing the heavier feelings of guilt, the lure of revenge. Felix carries those feelings every day and he knows that they threaten to tip the balance within his mind if he focuses too deeply upon them. If he were honest with himself — truly honest, no strings attached — he would admit that shoving himself forward with a blade in his hand, accepting nothing but violence and battle, is a way of staving off those more dangerous thoughts. 

And yet, despite his best efforts and the way he resumes normal activities as though nothing has changed between himself and Claude, the hold he has on himself threatens to unravel. Claude has been occupying so much space within his mind over these last months that it feels impossible to extract him, to grip a sword and think about how he’s fighting for himself and that it has nothing to do with Claude. It’s impossible to avoid considering what life might be like if he were to pause the swing of his sword, if he looked to a future without a blade in his hand. 

But when he does think about that potential future, all he can see is red. 

Hilda is wrong, to some extent, Felix thinks as he strikes the dummy so hard that it splits the wood. He _is_ fighting to live; he just cannot envision life without more fighting. 

The dummy is effectively destroyed, so Felix decides to call it for the evening. He cleans up the area and heads back to his room, trying not to think about how the irony of avoiding thoughts about Claude and dreams is that he winds up thinking about his avoidance in far more detail than he should. 

He is tending to his weapons in his room when Claude knocks on his door. His evening visits have been fewer in recent weeks, but Felix steps aside to let him in immediately all the same. No matter what struggles exist in his thoughts, Felix sees no point in trying to make Claude leave when they still have work to accomplish together. 

They sit on the bed a careful distance apart. Claude gives him a small smile that Felix can tell he doesn’t really feel, then says, “I want to tell you something.” 

“So tell me,” is Felix’s impatient response, trying to ward off any dancing around the topic before Claude can begin. 

“I’m trusting you with this information,” Claude tells him. “You can’t tell anyone yet — not even Sylvain.” 

Felix gives him an annoyed glare. “If you believe I go around blabbing secrets for the sake of gossip —” 

“It isn’t that,” Claude interrupts, albeit gently. “I want you to understand the weight of what I’m telling you.” 

Felix clenches his teeth, biting back any further frustrated comments. “I understand,” he forces out. 

“I want Byleth to rule over Fódlan,” Claude confesses, using the professor’s name for the first time, as far as Felix has heard. More surprising than that is the statement itself, which Felix takes a long moment to process. 

“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Felix finally settles on saying. He admires the professor’s skill as a swordfighter and respects her for her ability in battle. She is a good commander and she might be a good leader of a small territory or even part of Fódlan, but to hand it all over to her? “She has no experience as a ruler and Fódlan is going to be a mess when the war is over,” he adds. It needs a strong hand to guide it, not the weak personality of someone who has spent the past few months allowing Claude to move her like a pawn instead of making decisions on her own. 

“She has a lot to learn,” Claude agrees, “but I believe she can do it, and in the long run, it will be what’s best for Fódlan and the world at large. But to get there, she will need good advisors.” 

“No,” Felix says immediately. This is it, he realizes. This is what Claude has been pushing him toward from the beginning. This is why he insisted that Felix attend the council meetings to back up the professor, why Claude has kept him at his side through all these politically sensitive meetings. 

He’s angry with Claude in a way he hasn’t been in a long time, he realizes. Claude also seems to realize this, because he reaches as though to put a hand on Felix’s arm. Felix jerks away and stands so he can put as much distance between them as possible. He moves back toward his desk but doesn’t sit or lean against anything, wound up as he is. 

“You and your schemes,” he spits with disgust. “I’m not like her. I’m not going to drop everything to make your dreams come true.” 

A fleeting flinch passes across Claude’s expression before it falls back into neutrality. “I’m not asking you to make my dreams come true,” he says quietly. “Byleth will lead and she will succeed with or without you.” He folds his hands in his lap, maintaining relaxed body language. “There are others who can advise her, if you won’t do it. This is about your future — your dreams.” 

“We’ve been over this. I don’t have dreams.” Felix clenches his fists, thinks about storming off to the training grounds. If things had played out differently — if Dimitri had lived, if war hadn’t taken over their lives, if Glenn hadn’t died — maybe it would be different. But there’s no point in thinking about what-ifs. 

“You can’t tell me you don’t enjoy wielding your words like you do your sword,” Claude presses, unwilling to back down from his point. 

It doesn’t matter whether he enjoys it or not. “Fighting is in my blood,” he tells Claude. “I will never be able to stop.” 

Claude asks, “What if you could do both? Fight and advise?” 

Felix laughs at that, but the sound is harsh and unamused, no smile gracing his face as he huffs out the noise. “You know that’s not how it works. When the war is over, it’s either court or it’s battle.” Sure, there may be occasion for snuffing out bandits or quelling uprisings, but it isn't the same. The scales would be tipped and Felix would spend more time in front of an audience than he would with a sword in his hand. 

“That may be how it works here —” is Claude’s ridiculously pointless beginning of a reply. 

“Not all of us can just drop everything and run off to Almyra when the war is over,” Felix snipes, which gets him the reaction he wants — Claude once again affected by his statement, emotion glancing across his face. “That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?” 

“I understand your feelings,” Claude deflects, trying to return to the previous topic, tone turning formal. “Forget I said anything about advising Teach.” He stands to leave, but Felix grabs his arm. 

“No,” he says, feeling so upset for so many reasons, emotions he’s been trying to avoid bubbling dangerously close to the surface. He should let Claude leave so he can go to the training grounds and beat them away, but he doesn’t want to. 

He doesn’t know what he wants. 

Claude looks him in the eyes and gently brushes hair out of his face, smiling a little, though he looks far from happy. “I’m sorry that I have to leave when this is over,” he says, which makes Felix reel internally, because that’s not what this is about — that’s not what he’s trying to say. His grip tightens on Claude’s arm, but Claude doesn’t seem to notice or care. 

He kisses Felix — just like that, despite being gripped so hard Felix’s hand aches, despite facing down Felix’s wrath and seeing everything that Felix tries so hard to beat away. He kisses Felix as though he understands everything that Felix doesn’t understand about himself, and Felix kisses him back because he’s weak, because that’s what he really wants to do, because Claude is right, he doesn’t want him to leave when this is over, he doesn’t want to serve Byleth when he could be fighting at Claude’s side. 

When they break the kiss, Claude’s eyes are unreadable and Felix can feel heat surge throughout his body. He releases Claude’s arm, but only because he decides to shove Claude back to the bed. Claude makes a slight sound of surprise but allows himself to be pushed until he makes contact with the mattress. 

Felix has no idea what to do with himself. “I’m so angry,” he whispers, as though the phrase could be seductive on his lips. 

“I know,” Claude replies, breathless as Felix shoves him into lying back on the bed. 

Felix straddles Claude, leaning forward to kiss him again, hungrier than before — desperately seeking something for which he can’t ask. Claude’s hands roam down his back and settle on his waist as they both deepen the kiss, tongues finding each other, passion bleeding into every light movement. 

Somehow, by the time Felix sits up once more, Claude’s hands have deftly undone all the buttons of his surcoat and made their way under his shirt. Felix, meanwhile, is trying to make sense of Claude’s clothes, his hands moving with little finesse. 

When Claude’s fingers find the scar along his abdomen — the place where Claude held him together all those years ago, after the battle with Miklan — Felix freezes. Claude’s hands slow. He traces the scar carefully as they look at each other, saying nothing. 

“We should stop,” Claude says, breaking the silence, as though the scar has reminded them both of what they are doing here, of the responsibilities they still need to carry, of all the reasons they shouldn’t allow this to go further. He pulls back his hands. Felix moves away from Claude, standing and trying to regain control over his body. He buttons his surcoat and tries to make himself presentable again. 

Claude sits up and runs a hand through his hair, then smoothes down his clothes. He moves from being openly wanting to closed off quickly, whereas Felix has to turn away for several minutes until the blood in his veins cools enough for him to face Claude again. 

“You’re important in Almyra,” Felix says while staring at the wall, resuming their earlier conversation, albeit with less energy. 

“In a manner of speaking,” Claude replies. His voice, less controlled than the rest of him, sounds a little hoarse. “Not as important as you’d think, but I have work to do.” 

Felix tries to focus on breathing in and out. “Will you ever be able to tell whole truths?” 

“Maybe one day,” Claude answers quietly. “But not now.” A pause. “Can you accept that?” 

Felix turns back around to look at Claude, seeing if he can trust himself to do so now that his heart rate has slowed. “Do I have a choice?” he asks. He’s already entrenched in this — it’s already way out of hand. 

“Yes,” Claude tells him. “You do.” 

Felix sits next to him on the bed, closer this time, but still not touching. “I already have accepted it,” he confesses, looking at the floor instead of into Claude’s eyes. 

Claude nods in acknowledgement and seems, for once, not to want to say anything more. 

Felix doesn’t raise his eyes to look at his expression. He swallows. “There are...” He trails off, then clears his throat. “Things...that I am also unable to say.” He says the last part in a rush, forcing it out, still refusing to look at Claude directly. 

Years ago, Felix would have never agreed to having any similarities with Claude, but he now recognizes that this is something they have in common, albeit for different reasons. Felix struggles to verbalize his emotions, to express them in any way that isn’t swinging his sword and throwing himself into his training. He is unable to be fully honest with himself when it comes to how he feels — and in turn, he is unable to be fully honest with others. 

Claude, meanwhile, has his own reasons for keeping his secrets and holding his cards close to his chest. Even when he gives a piece of information, he only offers scraps of half-truths, confessions that only contain sparse details. 

“I know,” Claude tells him, reaching for him, wrapping his arm around Felix’s back and pulling him closer. Though this time Felix doesn’t respond with any affectionate gestures of his own, he allows himself to be maneuvered without protest. “That’s okay,” Claude adds, a soft whisper close to Felix’s ear. 

Maybe it is. Maybe they can accept each other in their inability to be fully open. Claude can keep his secrets, Felix can beat away his feelings, and until the end of this war, they can still have moments like these: Felix finally looking at Claude, Claude giving him a small but genuine smile, the two of them leaning against each other, offering quiet support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Enbarr


	15. Cost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chaos of war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a little extra time! Thank you for bearing with me <3 
> 
> This chapter contains descriptions of battle and a serious injury.

Claude is tired. 

It isn’t just the long march to Enbarr — half of which he spends on foot with the unmounted units, the other leading his battalion in the air — that has him rubbing his forehead and concealing a tired sigh behind his hand when no one is looking. Nor is it the multiple morale-boosting speeches he gives along the way, the conversations he has with those who doubt and those who are over-eager. He can’t even blame the bout of bad weather that causes everyone to lose out on sleep during a fitful attempt to camp one evening. 

All of those events are draining, sure, but Claude’s lighthearted leadership is so practiced, it comes naturally to him at this point, even when he isn’t feeling particularly energetic. 

No, it’s none of those things. He’s tired of battles, of fighting and losing people to this war, of staring into the war-weary faces of everyone who has placed their trust in him. He’s tired of death and blood and dying cries, of having to accept that this war is a necessary stepping stone in achieving his dreams. 

But there’s no room for that — no time to sit and think about the cost when so many have their eyes set on him, waiting for him to smile, wanting only to see that he believes in a positive outcome. 

He gives them what they need and they trust his words. When they make camp, he makes rounds and offers support to any who need it. He is realistic — the battle will be difficult — but hopeful: we can win. 

And when he retreats into his tent and is hidden away from everyone, he sits on his cot, places his head in his hands, and thinks about how close they are to the end. 

He isn’t hidden away from everyone, though. Felix stands there, crossing his arms as he watches Claude’s unusual display of fatigue, edging on a true confession of how he feels. 

“Stop that,” Felix tells him, harsh and unyielding. Claude looks up to take in his disapproving glare, the tension in the way he holds himself, wound up because fighting is within reach. “Put that stupid smile of yours back on and _act_, like you always do.” 

By now, Claude has learned enough of Felix’s language to decipher his words: _Don’t fall apart now,_ he’s trying to say. 

And there’s merit in the instruction. Anyone could enter his tent with an urgent report. This is not the time or place for vulnerabilities. 

“The world must be ending if you’re telling me to keep lying,” he jokes with a tired chuckle. 

A heavy moment passes between them, where Felix goes from tense to unsure — drops his arms and stands awkwardly as he tries to figure out the space that exists between them, this new tentative and unspoken understanding of what they are, or could be, under different circumstances. 

“You know what I mean,” Felix says then, simmering into something quieter, second-guessing himself. Claude can tell he’s uncomfortable because he shifts his weight and his hand comes to rest on the hilt of his sword, an old habit. 

“You can go,” Claude offers him. He can reset and come back, or stay gone until Claude has fully collected himself again. 

But Felix says, “Don’t be an idiot,” and takes three short steps to stand in front of Claude. He places one hand on his shoulder, and after a pause, follows through with the other, leaning in a little, so Claude’s face is lightly pressed against his stomach. It almost feels like a hug — an incredibly stiff hug, but enough of one that Claude catches himself leaning into it, against his better judgement. 

It is short-lived. Someone calls for him from outside the tent. Felix pulls away too quickly — straightens immediately and places himself in front of Claude, as though to shield him. 

“It’s fine,” Claude tells him, standing with a smile. “All better, see?” 

Felix looks unimpressed. 

Claude brushes his arm against Felix’s, a silent thank you. 

They exit the tent together and Felix disappears long before Claude finishes his conversation. He returns to his tent alone, and when he lies down on his cot, he thinks. 

The problem, he muses tiredly, with indulging certain wants in the middle of the war is it opens up vulnerabilities that need to stay closed. He doesn’t have time to be distracted by thoughts of what Felix may be feeling or thinking — of the weight of all the unaddressed topics that have accumulated between them. He can’t spare the focus to yearn for another of those rare, comforting touches — of further proof that against all expectation, Felix somehow doesn’t care about what he now knows about his background. He doesn’t have the luxury of allowing his mask to drop even for Felix, no matter how tempting it might be to settle into something more genuine, merely because Felix saw part of him once and did not turn away. 

It’s too dangerous, especially so close to the end of this war — and to his inevitable departure. There is too much at stake; Claude still has secrets he must protect. He can’t give into the lure to let down his guard, even for someone who once offered acceptance. He has to stay focused, and Felix needs to stay focused, too. Which is exactly why Claude will continue to keep them from going too far. 

That resolution keeps him grounded even when, late into the night, Felix finds his way into his tent again and sits on the ground beside his cot. 

“I know you’re awake,” is Felix’s greeting, voice quiet since most of the camp has turned in by now. 

“You shouldn’t be,” Claude replies. “You’ll be grumpy tomorrow.” 

Felix huffs and Claude can picture the angry crinkle in the corner of his eyes, the way he’d glare if they could see each other in the dark. “Don’t treat me like a child,” he grumbles. Claude can hear him shift, maybe folding his arms in annoyance. 

They fall quiet. Claude listens to Felix breathing in and out, so close to him, and his thoughts begin to stray. He starts to think _what if_ and _only for tonight_ and he has to double down on his resistance. Claude is nothing but controlled. He will not give in. 

After a steadying breath of his own, he says, “You should leave.” The words feel cold on his tongue, his tone betraying none of his weakness. 

Felix is quiet for a moment. Claude wishes he could see his expression, to gauge his reaction. When he speaks, his words sound tight — emotional, but not necessarily angry. “I’m trying —” He clips his statement, doesn’t put voice to his motivations. 

“The only thing you should be trying to do,” Claude forces himself to say, schooling his tone as he does so, “is prepare for battle.” 

Once again, Felix is quiet. The silence stretches between them, tense and heavy. Claude turns over, his back to where Felix sits. He listens to the sounds of Felix getting to his feet, of his hesitation upon standing — and then the way he moves closer so his hand can find Claude’s arm in the dark, where it comes to rest briefly. 

Claude has to stop himself from reaching back to grab Felix’s hand before he pulls away. He has to bite back the desire to ask him to stay. 

As Felix leaves, he forces himself to think of the battle to come instead. 

* * *

There’s a distinct irony, Claude thinks as he surveys the ravaged city streets from his wyvern, in having to facilitate so much destruction in order to achieve a peaceful goal. All he wanted, even long before he knew war was on the horizon, was to tear down all the artificial barriers that separate one country from another so that there could be a fostering of mutual understanding, a sharing of culture, an ability to see different perspectives. 

He had been willing, back when he was young and naive, to do whatever it took to achieve his dream, even if it meant taking the sword of the creator and literally cutting down mountains with it. He had been ready to use his professor to his own ends, to charge ahead on his own, and to fight, if it came down to it. 

He has not changed much when it comes to his resolve. He still, admittedly, has used his professor, he still has charged forward with enough secrets that, though not entirely on his own, he is rather isolated from his friends, and he is indeed fighting. However, his point of view has shifted. He is able to see that he was foolish back then, for thinking of fighting so lightly. Staring at the destroyed city, watching displaced citizens gather in pockets to find safety, seeing the land harmed by the chaos of war — all Claude can think is there should have been another way. 

Maybe, if he and the other two lords had been less focused on themselves and their plans, they could have achieved understanding without all this bloodshed and loss of life. At his core, understanding is all Claude ever wanted. 

There’s little point in thinking about it now that his troops are preparing to enter the castle to finally take down Edelgard. There’s even less of a point when Claude considers that he had very good reasons for keeping his motivations quiet. 

He spares the thought anyway, just long enough to allow a few moments of silence for all that is lost, and all that will continue to be lost as they move into the next phase of battle. And he thinks about how he will continue to pursue his far-reaching dreams, but right now, the dream he cares most about is bringing forth a future where Fódlan is no longer ravaged by war. 

When he lands for the debrief, he’s surprised by Dedue, and then surprised once more when Dedue tries to take off after Edelgard on his own. Thankfully, Leonie is standing beside him when Dedue refuses the offer to fight alongside each other. 

“Dimitri wouldn’t have wanted you to do this on your own,” she tells him. “Let’s do it together.” 

With that, they pull off to the side to speak to each other in hushed tones. Claude affords them their privacy while he looks over the information that Dedue handed over. By the time he has finished scanning the details, Leonie and Dedue are ready to provide their answer. 

“Dedue will join us,” she announces. “If you agree to put us on the front lines.” 

“We will have our revenge,” Dedue adds firmly. 

In truth, even this far in, Claude would prefer a peaceful end to this war. If he were given the opportunity to sit down and talk with Edelgard, and if she could be swayed in another direction, he would gladly put an end to the bloodshed. But Edelgard has shown no interest in backing down, has used her citizens as shields by refusing to evacuate the city, and undoubtedly waits for them with a large army complete with demonic beasts. He knows, therefore, that the chances of her conceding are non-existent. 

Someone will need to kill Edelgard in the end. If Dedue and Leonie want that job, he sees no point in refusing them, especially if it will convince them to fight alongside them, instead of dangerously forging on ahead alone. 

He looks to Byleth, since she will be the one in command for the battle. She gives him a slight nod. 

“You got it,” Claude then agrees. “Just be careful in there. Don’t do anything rash — you’ve got all of us to back you up.” 

After that, they go over the battle plan. 

Then it’s time to fight again. Claude raises his bow. “Let’s usher in a new dawn!” he calls out. 

Around him, his former Golden Deer — his friends — cheer. Beyond them, their army stomps their boots, raises their weapons, cries out in anticipation. 

Claude’s eyes meet Felix’s for one fleeting moment, long enough to see him raise his chin in determination. Then Claude urges them onward and into the castle. 

* * *

The battle is brutal, as battles tend to be. 

Claude had been right about the demonic beasts. He had been correct about the army waiting for them as well, though he hadn’t anticipated just how many men Edelgard could fit in her castle. And no matter how correct his predictions may have been about what awaited them in those corridors, killing former classmates never goes down easy. He knows that he isn’t alone in feeling grim over seeing — and ending — familiar faces. 

As promised, Leonie and Dedue remained on the front lines. When it came time for Edelgard to fight, Claude and Byleth stood close by while they took her down. Dedue landed the final attack, in an action that Claude sincerely hopes will give him — and the late Dimitri — some peace. 

Even with a successful outcome, it’s difficult for Claude’s spirits to remain high while he looks down at Edelgard’s motionless body — and while he surveys the damage all around him. So many wounded, so many dead. It’s a victory, but even victories always come at a cost. 

“Claude,” Byleth says to him. 

“The debrief, I know,” Claude replies, taking a breath to gather himself. He turns away from Edelgard’s body and looks down at himself — he’s bloody and has some minor injuries, but nothing that needs to be concealed for this final meeting. 

“No,” Byleth responds. “Felix.” 

He looks up, then, and has to keep himself from frowning when he sees her expression. It’s upset, maybe even a little afraid, and he can feel himself responding with a surge of energy he thought long depleted. 

“I don’t have any more — I can’t undo it.” 

“What do you mean, my friend?” He keeps his tone even, but the strangeness of that statement does little to ease his concern. 

“He isn’t here,” she explains. “And if he isn’t here, that means —” 

Claude scans the troops that are in the hall, taking a quick count of all the familiar faces. She’s right. Felix isn’t among them. He isn’t here for the debrief, which means he’s stuck somewhere — injured or worse. 

Claude works quickly. He motions Leonie and Dedue over, as they’re closest, and quickly explains the situation. They agree to backtrack and look for Felix. “I’m going too,” he tells Byleth. The debrief can wait a few extra minutes. “Gather anyone with Faith magic and send them our way.” 

She nods. 

Claude follows Leonie and Dedue until they branch off in different directions down the corridors. Claude mentally retraces the path of the battle, mapping it out in his mind, trying to remember where Felix was the last time he caught sight of him. It isn’t an easy task — Claude hadn’t been watching him closely because he had been focused on fighting. 

But he remembers the plan — Felix was supposed to assist with the demonic beasts, then continue down the leftmost corridors. Claude decides to follow that path, pace as brisk as he can manage without breaking out into a full-on panicked run. 

As the corridor opens up into a room filled with long-dead Imperial soldiers, felled by superior swordsmanship, Claude knows he’s in the right place. And he hopes, desperately, that he isn’t too late. 

Because no matter how much he may deny both himself and Felix what they really want, he can’t stand the thought of losing him — complicated, unpredictable Felix, who constantly keeps him on his toes in ways that Claude rarely manages to anticipate, who stood up to his former friend and prince to save his life, who learned of his background and didn’t turn away — 

Heart hammering in his chest, Claude moves forward and searches for a sign of life. 

* * *

Whenever Felix imagined what it would be like to die, he always pictured himself fighting until the very last moment. He imagined he would struggle against the pain, the lure of unconsciousness, the fading of his strength. He figured he would hold his sword in his hand until the very end, clutching it until he could no longer. 

The reality is far different from his musings. For one, he can’t find his sword. He must have dropped it at some point, and he can’t bring himself to rise to find it, nor does he have the strength to unsheathe his backup, so he will die without a weapon in his hands. He also finds that he doesn’t really have any will left in him to fight against this. It’s as though his body is so accustomed to near-death that it simply relaxes at the prospect of what’s to come. 

So instead of pushing forward or trying to resist the inevitable, Felix merely slumps in the corner of the room, lazily holding his stomach wound together and watching with detached interest as he bleeds out in his final moments. He has a strange sense of deja vu, as though he’s done this before, which is a stupid thought, because a person can only die once. 

Regardless, he waits for his death and feels oddly content with it. 

He drifts out of consciousness for a moment, but then he’s slapped, _hard_, and it wakes him right up. He opens his eyes and finds himself looking at a very worried, maybe even fearful, Claude. Which makes even less sense than the prospect of being familiar with dying, because the Claude he knows doesn’t wear so much real emotion on his face. 

“Felix.” Claude’s tone is all wrong. Felix wonders if he’s dreaming. 

“What’s wrong with your face?” Felix asks him, slowly. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

Claude doesn’t answer his question. “I’m going to put pressure on your wound,” he says instead. He gently pulls Felix’s hands away from his stomach and puts his own hands over it. It hurts, but not as much as Felix feels it should. 

Felix glances down. “We’ve done this before,” he says. Claude held him together like this once, Felix realizes, though he had been unconscious at the time. Sylvain had told him the details, he remembers vaguely. 

“Yeah,” Claude tells him. “Yeah we have.” Then he does something strange — he whistles, loudly, several times. 

Felix tries to glare at him in annoyance, but he doesn’t think he manages it very well. 

“I’m calling my wyvern,” Claude explains. “If she can hear, she’ll lead the others this way.” 

Felix closes his eyes, but Claude’s concerned voice interrupts him. “Stay awake, Felix. Please.” 

“Why are you so worried?” Felix asks, forcing his eyes open so he can squint at Claude’s face again. He reaches up, weakly, to touch Claude’s face, to see if it’s really tangible, if this is really Claude looking so fretful. His fingers stain his cheek with blood. 

“Oh,” he murmurs when he sees that. “I’m dying.” He nearly forgot. 

“You’re going to live,” Claude tells him, like he absolutely believes it, like it’s a fact and not even remotely in question. 

“A scheme?” he asks, wondering if somehow, Claude planned for this, as he does all things. 

“You could call it that,” Claude replies, but he sounds distracted. His eyes move to look at the wound, then look back up at Felix. 

“Mm,” Felix acknowledges. “Your schemes usually work out.” 

Claude exhales audibly. “This must be a dire situation, because that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” It’s meant to be a joke, but his tone is wrong all over again. 

“I feel fine,” Felix insists. He really does. Light, almost like he’s floating, the pain no longer so intense. “Just...cold.” He tries to close his eyes again, but Claude’s voice interrupts him. 

“A little longer, Felix. Please.” 

Felix opens his eyes again, albeit with difficulty. “She fought well,” he murmurs. “A worthy opponent.” 

“Who did?” Claude asks, though surely he must know. He had to have seen her body. “Tell me. Keep talking.” 

“Petra,” Felix replies. She had been so fast, attacking him before he his own attack landed. His delay was enough to get him stabbed, but the injury wasn’t enough to keep him from counterattacking. He took her down, and even now, as he lies here dying, he thinks it’s a shame that such a good opponent is dead. He would have liked to fight her again, under different circumstances. 

Claude says, “I liked Petra,” quietly, nearly a whisper, “but your skill in swords has always been better than hers. I remember the sword tournaments.” 

That statement manages to give Felix enough energy to ask with a subdued start, “You watched those?” Then, belatedly, he adds, “Of course you did.” He’d scowl if he could — Claude was always scheming around him back then. 

“It’s not what you think,” Claude argues. “Okay, maybe it’s a little of what you’re thinking, but it was also because I liked watching you.” 

Felix tries to roll his eyes. He’s somewhat successful. 

“Really. I liked you,” Claude tells him, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to confess. “I still do.” 

“You’re only saying that so I get annoyed enough to stay alive,” Felix accuses him. 

“Is it working?” Claude asks, and his tone is openly hopeful, openly everything, as though he would lay everything out on the table for Felix right now if Felix were to promise to stay alive. 

“Talking to you always gets me worked up,” Felix replies. He closes his eyes again. 

Claude then says, surprised, “You’re smiling.” 

“I’m not,” Felix insists, though even as he says it, even as he finally loses grip on consciousness, he feels strangely at peace. 

* * *

The next time Felix is fully conscious, he’s in the infirmary. 

He remembers bits and pieces of fragmented awareness, of being healed several times throughout the trip back to the monastery, of being transported by carriage. He remembers Ingrid talking to him at some point, and he thinks he remembers Marianne, but he can’t put them all together to make a cohesive timeline. 

All he knows is he nearly died, but he didn’t, and now he’s in the infirmary. 

“You’re awake,” Sylvain says as Felix’s stirs. At first, Felix thinks Sylvain is at his bedside, but when he opens his eyes, he sees that Sylvain is in the bed next to him. “You’ve been out for a few days.” 

“What —” Felix tries to ask, but his throat is so dry, the attempt makes him cough and gag. He reaches for the water beside his bed, but that makes him feel like he’s being split down his middle, so in the end he opts to just lie there in silence. 

“Sorry, I’d help you with that, but —” Sylvain gestures to his leg, “I’m also bedridden for a couple more days. Hurt it in the battle, got it healed but not well enough, and on the way back —” Sylvain makes a sickening squelching noise. 

Felix makes a face. 

“Guess you’ll just have to listen to me talk until Manuela or Marianne get back. They’ve been taking turns looking after you.” 

Felix glares at him. He hopes it sufficiently communicates just how much he doesn’t want Sylvain to talk his ear off. 

Sylvain grins. “Aw, don’t give me that look. You’ve missed a lot while you were asleep.” 

Felix decides to look at the ceiling. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in. First of all, because I know you must be beside yourself wondering why Claude isn’t sitting at your bedside —” 

Felix decides to look at Sylvain again, just so he can glare once more. 

“He has been, every night, I’m not sure he’s actually been sleeping at all. But he can’t stay come morning, because, surprise! The final battle wasn’t the final battle after all.” 

Felix tries to mutter something along the lines of, _There’s always a reason to keep fighting_, but he ends up coughing again. 

Sylvain patiently waits for him to finish. Then he launches into a brief explanation of how the final battle played out, of how Dedue and Leonie took down Edelgard, and then how they were given Hubert’s letter detailing a new enemy behind the scenes. 

“Idiots,” Felix manages to croak out. He doesn’t specify who, but Sylvain doesn’t need more details. 

“Tell me about it. All this time and we could have been fighting _with_ the Empire. But now it’s all on us...again.” 

And so Felix will fight again. Assuming he is cleared to do so. Maybe even if he isn’t. After the losses they suffered in Enbarr, surely Claude needs all the units he can get. 

“Hey,” Sylvain says, voice changing to a tone that Felix knows all too well, the earnest and open Sylvain that makes Felix want to leave the room. 

Felix takes a breath. 

But Sylvain seems to decide to take it easy, and after a moment, he only says, “I’m glad you’re alright.” 

And when Felix glances at him to see a dopey, emotional grin on his face, he quickly looks away, but thinks, _Me too._

* * *

Sharing a room with Sylvain for a prolonged period of time gets tiring fast, because Sylvain seems intent on being insufferable at every opportunity, probably fueled by the fact that even after Marianne arrives to help Felix to some water, Felix’s voice is still too hoarse to be of use beyond a few clipped words. 

Marianne shares her prognosis with him — his injury was dire, but because they were able to heal him several times before leaving Enbarr, there should be no permanent damage, though it will likely take the full month for Felix to feel fully himself again. She explains that while he’s outwardly healed, the severity of his injury means his body still needs to recuperate. 

When Felix manages to croak out a question about being able to fight at the end of the month, Marianne and Sylvain share a look before Marianne answers, “If you rest, it’s possible.” 

Of course, Felix hates resting. 

Throughout that first day, though, he has no trouble with it. He goes in and out of fitful sleep, occasionally nodding off in the middle of Sylvain’s rambles. His exhaustion gives him an easy out when a few visitors drop by, though he does try to stay awake long enough to get more details about the final battle from Hilda when she arrives to have her lunch with him. Eventually, however, he manages to fall into a deep sleep and doesn’t awaken until late into the night, when it’s dark and Sylvain is snoring softly in the other bed. 

He carefully attempts to reach for water, and finds it placed into his hand, calloused fingers brushing his own as the water is passed over. 

He waits until he’s downed all of the water to say, “Claude.” 

“Shhh,” is Claude’s response. “Go back to sleep.” 

He doesn’t want to, but he can tell it’ll be a losing battle. He wants to tell Claude to stop being so foolish and sitting at his bedside when he clearly is no longer dying and in need of constant monitoring, but for once, arguing seems entirely too exhausting. Instead, he attempts to move himself, painfully, the action causing him to hiss at his own stupidity. 

“What are you doing?” Claude asks, chidingly, getting to his feet to assist Felix. But by the time he finishes the question, Felix has created enough space in the small bed for him. 

“Stubborn,” Felix murmurs. If Claude’s going to refuse to see reason and instead stay at his side even though he doesn’t need to be coddled, and Felix doesn’t have the energy to stop him, then Claude might as well try to sleep while he does it. 

“Me or you?” Claude whispers, though he sounds a little amused and he does, after a sigh, carefully join Felix in the bed. He is careful to settle without jostling Felix, but once they are close, he allows his head to gently rest against Felix’s shoulder. “You defied death,” he whispers. “Pretty impressive.” Even though the words seem light and unemotional, Felix knows there’s more behind them. 

“Had to,” Felix replies quietly, tiredly, already on the verge of falling back asleep. “So I could be properly annoyed with you.” It isn’t what he wants to say, exactly, but Felix has never been good at putting his feelings into words. 

Claude laughs breathily against Felix’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

“Sleep,” Felix tells him, reaching with his hand to find Claude’s. Claude’s fingers wrap around his, squeezing lightly. 

Before long, they’re both asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Felix is restless


	16. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nice moments and collective healing.

Sylvain wouldn’t normally consider himself a light sleeper, but when you have a slow-healing leg injury that’s constantly protesting your every shift in position, it’s difficult to hit a deep sleep and stay there comfortably. At least, he blames his leg and not the good-natured nosiness that comes with the territory of being friends with tight-lipped, slow-to-spill Felix Hugo Fraldarius for overhearing the short but intimate conversation that ends with the unmistakable sound of Felix making room for Claude in the infirmary bed and Claude following through with joining him. 

Sylvain knows that even now, up to his waist in war and with the scars to prove it, the people around him still harbor the impression that he doesn’t know when to stop talking, that he’d gladly infuse any conversation with an inappropriate flirtation or anecdote if given the opportunity. But the truth is that Sylvain has always known how to keep his mouth shut, he just chooses not to when it suits him, which is often. 

As Claude and Felix whisper to each other, brief but clearly significantly, Sylvain says nothing. He keeps his breathing steady and pretends to sleep. 

Because when one of your oldest and dearest friends (said friend’s opinion on labels notwithstanding) has a near-death experience, he deserves some uninterrupted comfort, even if it comes in the form of Claude von Riegan. 

Sylvain has made peace with Claude’s secrets over the past several months, and the more that they have spoken with each other instead of merely around each other, the more that Sylvain has come to establish a small, tentative trust. Learning about Claude’s background helped, because Sylvain finally felt like he understood him to some degree; making long-term plans for Sreng helped even more. 

But what really sealed the deal for Sylvain was seeing that Felix, after five years of distance and several more prickly layers, _still_ looked at Claude as though being irritated by him was second only to learning a new combat art — and Claude, despite his own complicated layers and carefully placed smiles, looked a shade more genuine when looking back at Felix. 

Sylvain may be rusty in such matters thanks to this never-ending war, but he still knows a lot about romance. He can recite pickup lines faster than he can recite the Gautier family line, he can tell you the meaning of every single flower that blooms in the monastery greenhouse, and he knows the best areas for getting some quick privacy when the dormitory is too busy to allow a couple to slip by unnoticed. But he knows next to nothing about that four-letter L-word when it really means something. Even so, up until recently, he would have bet very good money on knowing more about it than Felix, of all people. 

But maybe that was a wrong assessment, he thinks as he hears his two temporary roommates settle into what he assumes is a cuddle. Maybe Felix understands more than either of them realized. Maybe Claude’s getting there, too. 

Or maybe they’re making another mistake that will end in a bigger implosion than it did five years prior. Nothing great has ever come from that four letter L-word, in Sylvain’s weathered opinion. 

But if that’s the case, at least it’s mutual this time. At least Claude is willing to give a little now. Maybe they’ll get a measure of happiness out of it before the end. 

And if they do — well, good for them. _Someone_ should come out of this with something that isn’t yet another scar, another ache, another pain, another burden of a life notched into one’s belt. If it takes a mistake to get there, then so be it. 

His contribution to the cause is keeping his mouth shut when Claude and Felix have their late-night conversations. 

And, later, when he awakens bright and early in the morning to the sight of Ingrid staring at them with eyebrows raised, he can help keep her quiet, too. He places a finger to his lips and watches as she presses her mouth into a thin line, then comes to sit on the bed next to him. 

“Is this...happening again?” she whispers. 

Sylvain replies quietly, “I think this is a first for them.” 

“You know what I mean.” She gives him a flat look, but explains further anyway. “Felix’s feelings.” 

“In that case,” Sylvain says, “it’d be better to say it never really stopped.” 

Ingrid sighs in that way she does, like she’s had enough of her childhood friends to last her a lifetime, but is secretly glad they still drive her crazy. 

Sylvain nudges her. “Aw, come on, you know you’re happy for them.” 

“I’m _worried_ for them,” Ingrid counters. 

“Them?” Claude asks, sounding far too awake for someone who was supposed to be in a deep sleep a moment prior. He carefully extracts himself from Felix, who begins to stir as a result, and turns to face Sylvain and Ingrid when he gets to his feet. “I’m flattered to hear I’m included in your worries.” 

Caught mid-gossip, Ingrid quickly stands, her cheeks turning pink. Sylvain does his best to keep from laughing when she replies, with all the formality she can muster, “Of course! It’s very concerning to find our leader in the infirmary. Are you alright?” 

Welp, there goes Sylvain’s self-control. He laughs. Ingrid spares a glare for him. 

“It was the strangest thing,” Claude replies cooly, without missing a beat. “There I was last night, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I felt so very dizzy.” He gives Ingrid a meaningful look. “I came here for help, but once I got to Felix’s bed, I couldn’t make it another step. I just had to lie down.” 

“Yes, well,” Ingrid replies, equal parts sarcastic and amused. “That makes complete sense. But you’re feeling well now?” 

“Healthy as a wyvern!” Claude exclaims, turning back to Felix to give him a pointed expression of some kind. Felix is now awake, sitting up, and watching this exchange in horror. 

“I hate when that happens,” Sylvain volunteers helpfully. “I get dizzy a lot, so as you can imagine, I’m always waking up in some pretty thing’s bed.” 

Felix goes bright red and looks angrier than Sylvain has seen him in a long time. 

Claude wisely regards him neutrally, eyebrows slightly raised, but Sylvain thinks he sees amusement beneath the surface. 

Ingrid looks as though she might slap him. 

It’s the most fun Sylvain has had in a while. 

“On that note,” Claude announces, “I'll be going.” 

“I was actually here to see what everyone wanted for breakfast,” Ingrid tells him. “If you have the time to stay.” 

“Finally!” Sylvain exclaims. “I’m starving.” 

“I have a lot to do today,” Claude says. “Better not keep my responsibilities waiting.” 

“Oh,” Ingrid replies. “Yes, you’re right.” 

“And here I was looking forward to hearing more about these dizzy spells of yours,” Sylvain teases. “Guess I’ll have to get all the details from Felix.” 

Felix, who looks like he’d rather be subjected to Alois’ terrible jokes for an hour than remain in a room with Sylvain any longer, finally speaks up. “It’s just breakfast,” he tells Claude. 

“I guess it is,” Claude replies, almost carefully. 

Sylvain can tell that they’re talking about a little more than breakfast, but once again, keeps his mouth shut, because he _can_ read the room, and the room says to give them a minute. 

Ingrid has the same impression. He can tell because she frowns slightly, like she’s trying to pick up the nuance. 

“Okay,” Claude decides after a long pause. He sits on the edge of Felix's bed. “I’ll stay for a few.” 

“Great,” Ingrid replies. 

While she and Claude discuss breakfast options, Sylvain gives Felix a stealthy thumbs up. 

Felix gives him another, less polite gesture. 

Sylvain can’t help but grin. 

* * *

Initially, being cooped up in the infirmary isn’t as terrible as Felix anticipates. Over the first couple of days, he sleeps a lot, and when he isn’t sleeping, he’s preoccupied with either trying to find the best way to shift positions without causing himself pain or being annoyed with Sylvain. 

Then Sylvain is healed enough to permit him to leave the infirmary. This should grant Felix some much-needed peace, but as soon as he leaves, Felix realizes being distracted by his rambling actually made the infirmary half-bearable. Without Sylvain around to frustrate him, Felix has nothing to think about except how much he hates sitting around. 

Then he starts to improve. The fatigue goes away and he is able to move around with less pain, although he still needs to be careful with any jarring or sudden movements. This newfound energy makes him restless, bored, and desperate for the chance to do something physical. Manuela, Marianne, and even Mercedes, who drops by frequently, all refuse his desire to be released “at least until the pain goes away.” They worry that although Felix is outwardly healed, he is prone to easily reopening the still-delicate scar tissue. 

He suspects that they also don’t trust him to avoid the training grounds once he is released, which is a fair assumption. Felix can feel his skills languishing as he lies in the infirmary bed. The longer he rests, the further away all his goals — to be stronger, to keep fighting, to ensure that Dimitri’s loss is not in vain — seem to be. 

Claude still visits every night. Initially, Felix continues to mostly sleep through his visits, although he leaves space in the small bed so Claude can at least get a few hours of sleep instead of stubbornly holding watch in a chair. But once Felix is healed enough to keep himself awake, he finally manages to have a real conversation with Claude, without anyone around to make stupid comments about Claude joining Felix in bed. 

The very first statement Felix makes is: “I want to attend the next council meeting.” 

Claude is standing with a stack of papers, looking as he usually does — easygoing, in good humor — but Felix can tell that there’s an edge to him, so subtle that anyone who hasn’t been trying to learn how to read Claude would surely miss. But Felix has seen more of Claude than he believes anyone has; those subtleties are no longer lost on him. 

“That isn’t up to me,” Claude tells him, taking a seat in the chair that’s positioned beside Felix’s bed. “You’ll have to talk to Marianne or Manuela.” 

Felix folds his arms out of annoyance and a desire to show that he can do so without grimacing in pain. “They act like I injured my legs. I am perfectly capable of walking to a meeting room.” 

“Walking, maybe,” Claude says in a way that sounds more doubtful than encouraging, “but sitting for a few hours? Then walking back?” 

“Sitting isn’t taxing,” Felix argues. “I sit here all day.” 

“You mostly lie down,” Claude replies. “Which you can easily do when you have a bed under you, instead of an uncomfortable chair.” 

“You don’t know what I do in here,” Felix says, and he knows he sounds petulant, like a child, which only worsens his mood. 

“I’m surprised you’re still underestimating me,” Claude replies, now amused. “I know exactly what you do in here. Earlier, for example, I know you played a suspiciously familiar board game with Sylvain. I know you had lunch with Hilda after that. I know that when Raphael came by —” 

“That’s enough,” Felix says quickly, angrily, not sure how he feels knowing that Claude is keeping such close tabs on him. Annoyed, mostly, and embarrassed, too, but also uncomfortably warm and — 

Felix focuses on the annoyance. 

Claude loses his amusement in favor of a softer tone. “You have to understand,” he begins patiently, “you scared everyone. It was touch-and-go for a while. No one wants to see you like that again. Everyone wants to make sure you’re fully healed before you go back to training and arguing on the council.” 

Felix can feel his face heat with shame — he knows it’s for his own good, he knows that he scared everyone, he knows he scared Claude most of all. He _knows_. But he also knows that his failings are what allowed him to be caught by a blade in the first place, and the only way he’s going to be able to overcome them is if he gets a sword back in his hand instead of sitting around and wasting away. 

Claude moves from the chair to the bed. He looks down at Felix’s hands, which are currently curled into tight fists, and places his hand over one of them. 

Felix’s knee-jerk reaction is to pull back, but he forces himself to remain in place. 

Claude doesn’t seem put off by the slight flinch. With his other hand, he sets the stack of papers in Felix’s lap. “Here. I brought you something.” 

“What is this?” Felix asks, trying to relax. 

“Everything we know about our new enemy so far.” Claude smiles as he says it. “You can pass the time reading through all of it, that way you’ll be up to speed when you’re able to attend the council again.” 

Felix immediately thinks to himself that he doesn’t want to spend his time reading through documents when he can just attend a meeting and listen to the information instead, but as he uses his free hand to flip through the pages on his lap, he realizes that every single one of them is written in Claude’s handwriting. And not just Claude’s normal penmanship, which usually ranges from moderately legible to horrific, depending upon how busy he is, but carefully neat, as though he took his time writing each page. 

He realizes, then, that these aren’t just Claude’s notes, hastily written throughout meetings or whenever a thought occurred to him. These were written specifically for him, in between his other responsibilities, with care and attention. 

Felix suddenly loses words. He clutches the papers a little tighter, looking away from Claude as he forces out a mere, “Okay,” while he tries to work through another wave of jumbled emotions. 

Claude squeezes his hand. “You’ll be out of here before you know it.” 

“It’s fine,” Felix grumbles, still looking away, though he leaves his hand tucked within Claude’s as he struggles with what to say next. There’s a lot on his mind, ranging from a word of thanks to _don’t patronize me_, with a little of _stop running yourself ragged_ mixed in. 

Claude, who must be able to tell that Felix is warring with himself, says nothing. He moves his thumb back and forth across the top of Felix’s hand, a light, unobtrusive motion, while Felix remains silent. Only after Felix glances at him, then away again, does he speak. “You don’t have to say anything,” he reassures him, reading Felix like a book. 

“I know that,” Felix replies, words harsh, expression setting into irritation. “I —” 

What he really wants, Felix realizes, is to ask Claude why he has more tension in his shoulders than usual, why even now, sitting next to him with a small, fond smile on his face, it looks as though something is bothering him. He wants to know if it’s the upcoming battle, if it’s something that happened on the council, or if it’s because Felix wasn’t strong enough and nearly died as a result — because he remembers the way that Claude looked when he found him barely hanging on, and he wants to somehow _do_ something about it. 

But when he decides that, his throat goes dry and his thoughts grow heavy and the only words that surface in his mind are tinged with cruelty, barbed, meant to deflect his feelings because he still can’t fully face them. 

He swallows them entirely and says nothing. Instead, he leans in and kisses Claude, slowly, carefully, like he is something fragile, and Claude kisses him back slowly, tenderly, like he is something precious. Something within Felix tugs in a way that has nothing to do with his still-healing injury and everything to do with how Claude moves closer, touches his face, and kisses him again. 

* * *

At the end of a very long day of meetings and research, Claude retreats to his room. 

He only intends to take a quick nap before visiting Felix — a nap in his own bed, because the infirmary bed doesn’t always provide the best quality of rest, given that it’s fairly small for two people, and because Claude needs some time alone to unwind. 

Everything is going smoothly. The success at Enbarr may have been accompanied with losses, but it boosted everyone’s morale. Despite the fact that the fighting must continue, everyone is in good spirits, the council meetings have been productive, and the general sentiment around the monastery is that they can, and will, win this. 

Claude works on keeping that energy going and guides everyone into productivity — research, tactics, planning, everything that they will need before they jump into this next battle. He, too, feels confident that they can pull this off. 

What concerns him, however, more now than it did before, is the potential cost of battle. Of what almost was, and what could be. Beneath the confidence, the good cheer, the productivity, he remembers very keenly what happened at Enbarr, and he knows very well what could happen in Shambhala. 

With that on his mind, he tries to steal a few moments of quiet to process, accept, and move forward. 

His quick nap ends up turning into a long sleep, and Claude only awakens because someone knocks on his door. He makes himself presentable before answers, then opens the door to find Hilda on the other side, giving him a stern look. 

“You’re late for your date,” she informs him, putting a hand on her hip. 

Claude turns to look out his window to see if he can get a sense of how late it is, yawning as he does so. “Did I have a date?” he asks innocently, though he knows she means Felix. 

“Don’t play coy,” she tells him, taking him by the arm and pulling him out of his room. “If you keep him waiting any longer, he’ll never do anything nice for you again.” 

“Easy,” he fusses, prying his arm out of her grip. “No one told me anything about dates and deadlines.” 

“I’m telling you right now,” Hilda points out. 

“Care to include some details?” he asks. 

“Nope.” She reaches forward and brushes some of Claude’s hair back, then takes in his overall appearance. “That will have to do, I guess.” 

“Thanks for your vote of confidence,” Claude tells her, rolling his eyes. “Can you at least tell me where I’m going?” 

“The Star Terrace.” She waves a hand, dismissing him. “Now get going.” 

“I’m going!” He calls as he heads that way. 

Even though Claude knows that Felix is at the center of this, he still feels like he doesn’t know what to expect. Felix isn’t the type to arrange a meeting under the stars, and he certainly isn’t one to involve other people. Not to mention, he is supposed to be confined to the infirmary. 

And yet, as Claude walks out onto the terrace, he sees it is Felix waiting for him, seated on a blanket, propped up with pillows, and looking both embarrassed and angry. 

“You’re late,” is what Felix says as Claude stands there, feeling, as he so often does when Felix does something unexpected, both delighted and internally unsteady. 

“I am?” Claude asks playfully. “I must have missed the memo.” 

Felix looks across the terrace, staring at the stone. “Are you going to sit?” 

“Sure.” Claude takes a seat next to Felix, leaving some space between them. He tells himself it’s because he needs to be careful with Felix, but he knows that in reality, he’s being careful with himself. “What are we doing out here?” 

Felix will not look at him. He fidgets, looking uncomfortable. “‘There’s nothing better than a nap under the open sky.’ You told me that.” 

Claude remembers. That had been the pivotal moment when Felix agreed to transfer to the Golden Deer. “I did.” 

Felix glances at him, then, looking exasperated. “Here’s the sky,” he announces with so much attitude, he could be talking about the most unpleasant sight in all of the monastery. 

Claude knows what he’s doing. From the moment he stepped out on the terrace, he knew that Felix was making a gesture. It’s obvious that Felix is trying to do something nice for him, that it’s uncomfortable territory for him, and that he’s pushing through it anyway. 

It’s romantic, in a way that Claude would never have guessed Felix could be, and it makes his heart want to beat faster. It makes him want to abandon all caution and finally address how he can’t help but feel. 

But he can’t. He may have admitted to himself that he cares, that he’s already too far gone to hold back — he may have decided that he won’t deny either of them the occasional comforting touch, not after nearly losing Felix — 

But he can’t express it. He can’t lay all his vulnerabilities out for anyone, not even Felix. 

There is only one thing in this world that truly terrifies Claude, and that is being fully seen — weaknesses and all. 

“Felix...” he begins with care. 

Felix replies with a firm, “Don’t.” Whether it’s for Claude’s benefit or his own, Claude isn’t entirely sure. Maybe it’s for them both. “Just lie back and relax.” 

They both lie down. Side by side, untouching, they look at the stars above. It’s a clear night and the sky is both beautiful and immense. It's been a long time since Claude really looked at it, and the more he does, the more at peace he feels. His dreams, his weaknesses, his concerns — they all seem small beneath a sky that continues to shine, in a world that continues to move, no matter what. 

Claude reaches out his hand until his fingers brush against Felix’s. Felix links their fingers together. 

Claude closes his eyes. 

* * *

They wake with the sun. 

Claude feels stiff but refreshed as he stands and stretches. Felix is unsteady after the night on the hard stone, but Claude allows him his space as he struggles to his feet, focusing on the sunrise instead of watching the way Felix winces as he moves, knowing that Felix won’t want attention on his weaknesses, the same way Claude doesn’t want Felix to see his. 

When Felix is upright, Claude turns to him and smiles so genuinely, it makes his cheeks hurt. “Thank you. I needed that.” 

Felix nods. 

Claude’s smile falters, just as quickly as it surfaced. Whereas the night under the open sky has lifted his spirits, Felix is coming away more burdened. Claude steps forward, questioningly, but without outright asking. 

Felix half-turns, closing himself off. “I need to apologize,” he states. “At Enbarr —” 

Claude steps forward again. He cups Felix's cheek and brushes his thumb along his lips to prevent him from saying anything more. 

Felix looks at him. 

There’s a reason Felix doesn’t like eye contact, Claude surmised some time ago. If you look into his eyes, really look, you can get a sense of what Felix is feeling underneath all his walls, all his prickly parts, to the deeper places that Felix himself often doesn’t fully understand. Like right now: surprise, self-blame, and less discernible, conflicted hope. 

When it comes to speaking of his own emotions or experiences, Claude has a tendency to talk in the collective or third person. He distances himself, because it’s easier to speak openly when he isn't implicated. But this he says very sternly and very clearly, so that there is no mistaking his meaning: “I don’t blame you for what happened.” 

He drops his hand, but leans in so that his forehead touches Felix’s and adds, softly, “You fought well and you lived. That’s what matters.” 

Felix nods, a slight movement of his head against Claude’s. “I’ll get stronger,” he says, as though it is a promise. 

There’s no separating Felix from the part of himself that vies to improve, to rise to a challenge, to keep fighting. So Claude replies, “I know you will.” Of that, he has no doubt. 

Then he kisses Felix, because though there is still so much he can’t say, so much of himself that he cannot expose, he can at least do this: show Felix, as he pulls him closer, one hand along his back, the other tangling in his hair, that no matter what has happened or what will take place in the future, he is irreplaceable in Claude’s life. 

And when Felix’s hands grip his shirt, when he matches his passion with lip and tongue both, pressing against Claude as the kiss deepens, Claude knows that though Felix will not openly admit it, he occupies a similar place in Felix’s life. 

Come what may in the future, this is what Claude truly wants: Felix at his side, in his arms, safe and whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Felix gets to use his sword again.


	17. Commitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision, an offering, and an acceptance.
> 
> Or:
> 
> "Some good ole communication and smooching." - troofless

With less than two weeks until they embark for Shambhala, Felix is finally released from the infirmary. He wastes no time in scooping up the documents he has read several times, the daggers Sylvain brought him to polish, and the board game he’s resorted to playing even when by himself for want of something better to do. With arms full, he heads to the door. 

“Please take it slow to start,” Marianne quietly reminds him before he can escape. 

“I won’t do anything stupid,” Felix responds with mild annoyance. He has already been through this with Manuela, Mercedes, _and_ Ingrid: light training only for a few days, lest he end up in the infirmary yet again. But he reels in his tone despite the impatience and restlessness gnawing at his composure because Marianne has already put up with her fair share of it throughout his stay. 

She nods at him as she begins stripping his bed of sheets and blankets. Felix hesitates, watching her for a moment, then says, “Thank you.” 

“Oh,” Marianne murmurs in surprise, pausing with an armful of linens to look at Felix again. “You don’t need to thank me.” 

“I do,” he insists. 

“Then...you’re welcome, Felix.” She gives him one of her rare smiles. “I’m glad you’re better.” 

It’s his turn to nod, then, in brief acknowledgement, the _I am too_ unspoken on his lips. But he knows he doesn’t have to say more to Marianne, and she knows that she doesn’t have to feel pressured to seek more, so both of them easily return to what they were doing a moment prior: Marianne gathering the rest of the sheets and Felix heading out the door. 

He stops by his room to toss his pile of belongings on his desk and quickly change into real clothes, rather than the variation of nightclothes he’s been forced to wear throughout his recovery. After that, he immediately looks for Claude. 

It shouldn’t be his very first action upon being released, but Felix justifies it to himself. After all, Claude needs to know he’s ready to attend council meetings again, and though Felix has read over his documents, it’s possible there’s new information for him to review. Besides, it isn’t like rushing to training will do him any good when he’s supposed to take it slow. 

He starts with the Cardinal’s Room, which he finds unusually empty for the time of day, after which he tries the Knight’s Hall. Coming up short there as well, he loops back around to Claude’s room, but his knocking goes unanswered. Feeling more frustrated the longer he searches, he decides to take a break in the dining hall, since it’s nearly noon by the time he gives up looking. 

Sylvain, Annette, and Mercedes sit at one of the tables and enthusiastically wave him over after he has grabbed a dish. 

“Felix!” Annette exclaims as he takes a seat beside her. “You’re all better!” 

“Mercedes mentioned you were being released today,” Sylvain says. “How does it feel to be a free man?” 

“I’m not free until I can train,” Felix grumbles, his good mood long soured by his wild and fruitless chase around the monastery. 

“You can train,” Mercedes reminds him, “if you’re careful.” 

Instead of answering, Felix cuts into the meat on his plate. 

“I’ll spar with you,” Sylvain offers. “I know you’re dying to get back to it.” To Mercedes, he promises, “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on him.” 

“Fighting against you at your full strength is easy enough as it is,” Felix complains. It’s an unfair jab considering Sylvain’s increased efforts in the last couple of months, but Sylvain takes Felix’s comment in stride as usual. 

“Ouch! I’ve been working hard you know. Someone had to beat up all those training dummies in your absence.” 

Felix looks at Annette to see if she can corroborate this claim, but she shrugs. “Don’t ask me. Keeping tabs on Sylvain is not my job.” 

“Nor mine,” Mercedes agrees before Felix can look at her. 

“Guess you’ll have to find out for yourself,” Sylvain tells Felix. He knows, of course, that all this teasing is enough to get Felix riled up and interested in taking up a sword against him, which is what Felix truly wants. 

“Fine,” Felix relents. 

Sylvain grins. “Knew you’d come around.” 

Felix shovels food in his mouth. 

Mercedes, perceptive as always, asks, “Is there something on your mind, Felix?” 

He wants to find out if _someone_ knows where Claude can be found, but posing the question feels complicated. It should be easy enough to ask, but Felix can’t help but feel that by doing so, he’d be admitting to something he still can’t put into words. 

Which is ridiculous, considering that he has every right to ask after Claude as a member of his council, so he forces the question out. “Where has Claude been all morning?” 

“Oh, he’s on a scouting mission near Hrym,” Annette answers cheerfully. “The professor, Hilda, and Lorenz went too." 

“They’ll be back in a couple of days,” Mercedes states. 

Felix squeezes his fork and very carefully attempts not to react to this information outwardly. He knows he fails because all eyes end up on him, taking in the way he tenses at hearing the news. 

“He didn’t tell you?” Sylvain asks. He keeps his tone light, knowing better than to draw unnecessary attention to how Felix must be feeling. 

“He probably didn’t want to bother you while you were healing,” Annette suggests, unaware that Claude and Felix have been bothering each other every night throughout his time in the infirmary. 

Felix forces himself to eat again, this time quickly. He needs to eat to rebuild his strength for training, but he wants to end this conversation as soon as possible. “It’s fine,” he says in between mouthfuls. 

Annette gives him a strange look. “If you say so...” 

“Come on, Annie,” Mercedes says, likely reading Felix’s desire to avoid their scrutiny. “We have cleanup duty.” 

“Alright.” Annette sighs as she stands. “Bye, Sylvain. Bye, Felix. I’ll find you later.” 

As soon as they are out of earshot, Sylvain asks, “Do you want to —” 

“I know why he did it,” Felix interrupts in between another set of mouthfuls. 

Sylvain raises his eyebrows. “Oh. Okay. Why?” 

“He knew I’d be released and he didn’t want me going on a mission so soon. If he told me...” Felix would have insisted, whether he was ready or not. Rather than having to go through the inevitable argument and refusal, which would have upset Felix, he decided to just leave and avoid it entirely. Which _also_ upsets Felix, but he has a couple of days to vent his vexation through training and distance. By then — 

Felix sighs, setting his fork down, and caps off his statement with: “It’s a scheme.” 

Sylvain watches Felix with surprise at first, but after that final comment, he erupts into laughter. 

“Why are you laughing?” Felix asks, now annoyed all over again. 

“You two,” Sylvain says, then laughs once more before speaking again, “have been spending way too much time together.” 

Felix’s face heats up in both anger and embarrassment. “Don't start with your nonsense.” 

“I’m being serious.” Sylvain leans forward and asks the next part in a hushed whisper, as though sharing exciting gossip. “Hey, do you think he knows you know? Like, when he was scheming, he knew you’d figure it out?” 

“I —” Felix begins, about to shoot Sylvain’s comment down. But then he realizes that Sylvain is probably right; Claude is always one step ahead. 

“I’m playing around,” Sylvain says when Felix stands. “Don’t go running off.” 

Felix shoves his plate in front of Sylvain. “Finish this.” 

“I don’t want — hey, wait a second!” Sylvain calls out, but Felix is already on his way out. 

He returns to his bedroom and finds it on his bed: a note, quickly scribbled. 

_You’ve probably figured it out by now. Don’t hold it against me, okay?_

Then, below that, as though an afterthought: 

_I’ll make it up to you._

Felix crumbles the note. 

Then he smooths it out and reads it again. 

* * *

The trouble with Claude’s schemes isn’t so much that he pulls them; as deeply intertwined as Felix has become with Claude throughout the war, he has learned to not only tolerate them, but also participate in them. There have even been times where Felix has aided Claude in putting them together. By now, he has accepted schemes as a part of Claude and even, to some degree, embraced that side of him. 

Rather, the trouble is that they are almost always infuriatingly successful, _especially_ when he doesn’t want them to be. 

Initially, Felix is a mixture of annoyed and angry — maybe even a little hurt — that Claude didn’t spare him a parting word. As the days until his return pass by, however, he loses the fire behind his temper and ends up in a place where he begins to merely look forward to his return. It’s pathetic, he knows, to pine like a grounded pegasus, but after spending night after night with Claude beside him, Felix now grows more irritable with the empty space in his bed. 

It should be a sign that this deepening of their relationship has plunged too far, but Felix can’t bring himself to think in that direction anymore. Instead, he thinks about _choice_ and what it means to him. Specifically, he reflects on how he has carved his own path and what that path looks like now that he has been walking it for months. 

In doing so, he realizes that every choice he has made for himself has somehow led back to Claude. 

Deciding to return to the monastery had been Ingrid’s idea, but Felix’s decision to go with her was his alone. Remaining in the monastery thereafter had been of his own volition as well. Selling his ceremonial sword for war funds, joining the council, following the professor’s command — he had chosen to do each of those things, and though Claude had hoped to push him in a direction of a dream, he hadn’t done it by force or manipulation. 

Gronder, also, had been all Felix. He specifically disobeyed both the professor and Claude to stand up to Dimitri and make the one choice that he should have never had to face — and yet he did, of his own accord. 

And then later, the kiss following their sparring match — that had been all Felix, too. 

Felix has had nothing but autonomy since returning to fight in this war. He has exercised it every step of the way, and yet every twist and turn in the path he has made for himself has still led back to Claude. 

He knows what this means. He’s known for a while now, but in Claude’s absence, the conclusion seems so much larger, so much more apparent. And _easier_, somehow, too. He understands that there is one way forward for his path — at least until it comes to an end. 

So he bides his time by training — lightly at first, then back to full strength — and waits until he hears word that the scouting group has returned. Then he looks for Claude. 

Once again, Claude is nowhere to be found. Felix speaks with the professor instead, who smiles at him knowingly, which irks Felix. “He has some business in the Alliance,” she explains. “He’ll be gone a couple more days.” 

The cycle of irritation begins all over again. Felix trains and bides his time once more. 

* * *

It rains the day that Claude returns. 

Flying wyvernback in the middle of a thunderstorm is neither safe nor ideal, but Claude has been gone from the monastery for long enough. The council meetings can only remain suspended for so long and he needs to check on the preparations now that the battle is near. He therefore urges his wyvern to continue, trusting her to recognize if they need to adjust course. 

He arrives safely but thoroughly soaked, so he attempts to head to his room immediately after seeing his wyvern to the stables. Before he manages to exit the entrance hall, however, he’s intercepted by Felix, who looks him up and down with evident displeasure. 

It’s a welcome sight after all that time Felix spent in the infirmary. If he can meet him in the entrance hall to gripe at him, then he’s back in fighting shape. Claude spent much of his trip wondering if Felix had resumed training and trying to guess at how angry he’d be once Claude returned, so he can't resist a small smile in response to Felix's glare. 

“Where have you been?” Felix asks, arms folded. 

“Thought I’d visit some old friends.” He says it lightly, knowing that Felix will not appreciate his levity but not yet ready for a serious discussion, given that he's barely made it into the monastery. 

Felix narrows his eyes. “You’re wet.” 

“I was about to take care of that.” He attempts to walk toward his room, inclining his head to encourage Felix to follow. 

Felix doesn’t move. “I held your war council meeting for you.” 

That derails the conversational track Claude believed them to be on. He stops walking. “What?” he asks. “When?” 

“Before the professor came back. If I had to hear one more argument about whether we should attack Shambhala in the morning or evening, I would have put my sword through someone.” He uncrosses his arms. “So I made them all sit down to talk it out.” 

The squabble isn’t surprising, nor is mounting anxiety before the next battle. What catches him off guard is that level of initiative. It’s one thing for Felix to attend the meetings; it’s another entirely for him to lead them. He can only imagine the amount of aggravation Felix must have felt trying to round up everyone and force them to agree. 

“What did they decide?” 

“Those imbeciles decided to wait for you to come back,” Felix says with more disdain than words should be able to hold. 

Claude laughs. 

“It isn’t funny,” Felix tells him. “It was a waste of time. I could have been training instead of holding a useless council for those idiots.” 

“I know,” Claude replies, and though he still grins, he’s touched by Felix’s unexpected attempt to maintain order and recognizes it as a gesture not only for the war effort, but for Claude as well. Felix’s actions always say more than his words. “Thank you for doing that.” 

“Someone had to step up.” Despite a loosening of his tone, Felix still seems tense, wound up in a way that communicates that something is on his mind. Claude assumes he wants to talk about his silent departure. 

But it isn’t yet time to discuss that — not while he is soaked through and growing chilled in the drafty hall. “I’m going to change before we talk,” he says. 

“Just —” Felix utters in response, “Don’t touch me. I don’t want to get wet.” 

“I wasn’t —” he tries to say, but Felix cuts him off by stepping forward and pressing their lips together. It feels clumsier than their previous kisses — emotional, undoubtedly weighed down by everything that’s been on Felix’s mind the past few days, and sloppy as a result — but something about it is so _Felix_ that Claude ends up swept up all the same. He closes his eyes as he returns the kiss. Despite being told not to touch, he can’t help but brush his fingers along Felix’s jaw, can’t keep himself from leaning into him. 

Felix pulls back first, immediately turns away, and then turns back around just as quickly to look toward where the gatekeeper holds his post. Claude follows his gaze, but it seems the gatekeeper is too preoccupied to have witnessed. 

“Does that mean you aren’t mad at me?” Claude asks, a tease in his voice. 

“Get changed,” Felix says, not answering the question. “I have something to say to you.” 

“Alright, give me half an hour.” He begins walking, but pauses to request, “Go easy on me, okay? It’s been a long few days.” 

And if Felix looks like he softens upon hearing that, Claude will keep that to observation to himself. 

By the time Claude has changed and grabbed a quick bite to eat, Felix is waiting for him again, this time standing in front of his door with a sheathed sword in his hand rather than on his belt, evidently very eager to get this conversation over with. He’s still worked up, Claude can tell, almost as restless as he seemed when cooped up in the infirmary. 

Claude leads them inside and Felix quickly shuts the door behind them. “Okay, I’m ready,” Claude announces as he takes a seat on the bed. “Let me have it.” 

Felix moves as though he’s going to take a step forward, hesitates, then sucks in an audible breath. Claude begins to realize that this isn’t about scolding him for leaving like he did; he can see this conversation is about to enter different territory. 

He opens his mouth to stop Felix from going further. 

Felix doesn’t let him. “Wait.” The word is clipped but heavy, thick with a mixture of uncertainty and frustration. 

Though Claude is concerned about where this is headed, he waits. 

“I’ve made my decision,” Felix states. It’s clear he’s making an effort to keep his voice even. He unsheathes the sword, rests the flat of it across both his palms, and holds it out to Claude. 

“What are you doing?” Claude asks. 

“Offering you my sword,” Felix tells him, glaring in a way that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with forcing himself through this. “Until this is over, I will fight by your side.” 

“You already fight with me,” Claude points out, remaining conversational. “You don’t have to make it official with theatrics.” 

“I don’t mean fight with you,” Felix snaps impatiently. “At your side,” he emphasizes. 

Claude remains outwardly composed, while inwardly he loses footing. “I ride a wyvern. I travel faster than you.” It’s a silly argument, a deflection of a heavy topic. 

“So?” Felix asks, sounding annoyed. He shoves the sword toward Claude. “You know what I’m doing.” 

He does, and that’s why he feels rooted to the bed, unable to reach forward. This simple act of offering — of loyalty — was a dream of his for so long. To be followed and supported in his goals was all he ever wanted, a wish abandoned as he grew older and realized that such gifts were not given so much as they were acquired by scheming. 

It’s why he struggles to consider accepting this; it’s why he cannot move his hands to take. 

“You hate stuff like this,” he reminds Felix, still in control of both his voice and body language, despite his inner unease. 

“I hate blind obedience,” Felix says. “But I am not blind and I am not all that obedient, either. You know what I am and what I have to offer. And I know I —” Felix seems to lose words, but clenches his teeth and forces out, “You know what you’re getting.” 

Felix remains stiff, his body language communicating discomfort, as though at any moment, he might pull away and change his mind. But still he stands there, holding out the sword, determined and unwavering. 

Claude thinks about how fragile Felix is underneath all of his layers, how easily he could say something to undo all of this. It would only take a few pointed words, aimed at the heart, and then Felix could go back to distrusting him all over again. He could fix this — whatever it is that they’ve created between them that causes both of them to shift their values to accommodate new, complicated feelings. 

But Claude is fragile, too, underneath all of his layers. Felix could easily wield his tongue and say so many things that would be Claude’s internal undoing, now that Felix exists beyond Claude’s carefully constructed defenses. He, too, could fix this — could put an end to all of it. And having that weakness, being at someone’s mercy, is what Claude has always feared — back during their time at the Academy, and now, with an offering of a sword before him. 

Maybe that’s what love is, Claude forces himself to consider, trying to work through the way his mind hitches at the thought. Maybe love is having the power to utterly ruin someone and refusing to act upon it. Maybe love means being willing hostages, each at a disadvantage — Felix with a sword pointed at his heart, Claude with an arrow aimed at his neck, a stalemate where no one wins, but no one loses either. 

Isn’t that how all of this started? A scheme, a challenge, a battle — everything getting out of hand, shoving and pulling, until this, right now, the breath before a killing blow? 

But there is no killing blow. There is only Felix holding out his sword before him, communicating a loyalty that he once swore himself against. _I’m not here for you_ has bled into _I’m fighting with you_ which has pooled into _I’m fighting for you_, and now they are both covered in the mess they made. 

Even though Claude can trace the way these words have shifted and changed over time, can map each touch to each kiss on the trail that has led them straight into muck of a difficult, unvocalized emotion — even though he feels it too — 

His next move feels difficult. He knows what he wants, what he has already accepted to be true. But there’s an easier path that doesn’t end with Claude offering up pieces of himself as Felix is offering to him right now. There’s a safer way, a guarded way, a way of ending the storm before it even brews. And that is why Claude hesitates. 

“I’m Almyran,” is how Claude breaks his silence. 

Felix frowns at him, his tension rippling to give way to confusion. “I know that.” 

“You know it,” Claude replies. “But I never told you.” He has never outright admitted it — has never spoken the two words in confirmation. It feels necessary to say it clearly now. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Felix must get tired of holding the sword, because he tosses it on the bed next to Claude. “This isn’t one of your games,” he says, impatience leaking into his tone. Felix seems to find purchase in the familiar feeling of annoyance, because he doesn’t regain his earlier agitation. “It isn’t an exchange or a truth for a truth or however that mind of yours is overanalyzing it to be. Take it,” he gestures to his sword, “or leave it.” 

Claude takes a breath. “Okay.” He picks up the sword. “I accept.” 

He knows that to be the answer he wants. He also knows it as the answer that is most dangerous for them both, because the deeper they dig themselves into this, the harder it will be to climb out later. 

Felix takes the sword from him, sheathes it, then sets it on the floor beside the bed. “Do you understand?” he asks as he straightens to level Claude with the intensity of his stare once again. “Do you know what this is?” 

He does. He knows this is more than an issue of fighting, that this is Felix communicating in the way he feels most comfortable — with a sword. He understands that this is a step forward, not adjacent to each other, but together. 

He understands that his acceptance is an admittance. 

“How could I not?” he asks, a ghost of a laugh on his lips. “You’re an open book.” 

Color creeps into Felix’s face, but he tries to scowl it away. 

“Faerghus has some strange traditions,” Claude observes, trying to joke his way out of the heavy moment. Internally, he still feels unstable. 

Felix sits next to him. “Stop talking about it,” he says as harshly as he can muster with a blush still coloring his cheeks. “It’s over.” 

Felix’s grumbling helps restore some of the normality to the situation. It is, Claude has to admit, comforting in its familiarity. 

“Actually, I think the point of all that was to say it’s just beginning.” 

They fall quiet, both ruminating on what that means, thoughts heavy as they consider what the future may look like on the backdrop of this risky but wholly wanted complication. 

* * *

“If you pull something like that again,” Felix says the next morning, after Claude has slept off both the fatigue from his trip and the aftermath of his discussion with Felix, “I’ll offer you my sword sharp end first.” 

Felix left not long after their talk, as though entering into a solidified commitment had somehow created more space between them. Now in his room once more, he lingers at the door and refrains from getting too close to Claude. 

“I said I’d make it up to you,” Claude reminds him as he ruffles through the stack of papers on his desk, trying to find what he needs for a day full of meetings. “I haven’t forgotten.” 

“With the way you scheme,” Felix snaps, “you’ll rack up a debt you can’t pay.” 

Claude stops sorting through documents to look up at Felix, assessing his expression. “Are you having second thoughts?” he asks lightly, carefully, his own expression closed off as he considers the possibility. 

Felix glowers in response, raising his chin in defiance. “Do you think I would humiliate myself like that just to change my mind the next day?” He doesn’t follow up with another question, but Claude can read between the lines of his frown, the _Are you?_ apparent in the way his glare weakens. 

Claude steps away from the desk to approach Felix. “I’m not either,” he says with the clarity of intent provided to him by a long night’s rest. He takes Felix’s hand, touching him for the first time since accepting his sword. “It won’t be easy, but I’ve always got something up my sleeve.” 

“I know,” Felix replies quietly. 

This time when Claude kisses Felix, Felix wraps his arms around him without restraint, as though unable to contain himself any longer. For one lingering moment, they don’t think about the future. They avoid all thoughts about the meeting waiting for them, the battle ahead, the end of the war. 

They think only of each other, right here, right now. 

* * *

Then the future comes and it looks like this: Claude atop his wyvern, leading their troops to Shambhala, and Felix at his right hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Felix and Claude navigate new (and old) feelings.


	18. Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude and Hilda talk. Felix and Claude grow closer.
> 
> Or:
> 
> "More hot and sexy communication." - troofless

They camp before they reach Hrym. Claude’s tent is set up across from Felix’s and next to Hilda’s, so when he finishes rounds for the evening, he notices that Felix has company. Sylvain and Ingrid sit outside with him. Together, they work on sharpening their weapons for the fight ahead. Felix looks up as Claude passes, an expectant look in his eye, as though he anticipates Claude will request his presence. Claude merely smiles and continues on his way. Felix has been at his side throughout the march; he deserves a break. 

Hilda joins him before he reaches his tent, giving his arm a tug and leading him over to the space between his tent and hers, where a cart is conveniently positioned. “Sit,” she instructs. 

He takes a seat on it and gives her a knowing look. “I see you’ve been talking the knights into doing you favors.” 

“No one needs the cart right now,” Hilda says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s better than those dingy cots, at least. I may sleep out here tonight.” 

“Sure,” Claude replies with only a hint of sarcasm. “Out here with all the bugs to keep you company.” 

“I don’t mind bugs,” she argues. 

“Wait until they crawl all over you in your sleep.” He wiggles his fingers at her. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” she laughs. “You’re right, I won’t sleep out here, but I will enjoy this for now.” She stretches, leaning back and resting her weight on her hands. 

“Something’s changed, hasn’t it?” she asks as follows his stare to the tent across from them. Dedue and Leonie have now joined Felix and the others, the five of them discussing something that makes Felix uncomfortable, judging by the way he moves his blade across his whetstone, arms jerking with restrained emotion. 

Claude turns his attention to Hilda. “What do you mean?” he asks, playing innocent. 

“Please,” Hilda huffs. “You can’t possibly think I haven’t noticed.” 

He shrugs, expression blank. “Truly, I have no idea. Your mind is a mystery, Hilda.” 

“My mind?” She places a hand over her chest in mock offense. “How can you say that with a straight face when you’re the one walking around with a brain that’s messier than your room?” 

“You’ve never been in my room,” he points out. “Or my brain.” 

“Thank goodness for that on both counts.” Her eyes widen dramatically. “I’ve seen the mess from the hall. No thank you.” With a put-upon sigh, she adds, “Nice try changing the subject, by the way, but I’m not letting it go.” 

“I did no such thing,” he claims, adopting a shocked expression to show that he cannot believe Hilda would slander him in such a way. 

“_Anyway_,” she transitions, drawing out the word and ignoring his display of fake surprise. “I was saying that something’s changed with you. I don’t know why you’re being so difficult about it.” 

“I feel the same as I always have.” He pats his chest experimentally. “Yup, still me.” 

Hilda rolls her eyes. “We’ve _all_ changed,” she emphasizes. “Even me. I’m a lot less lazy, though I can’t wait until I can be myself again.” 

Claude chuckles. “You do pull your own weight these days.” 

“So do you,” she replies. “You always have, but it’s different now.” She hums, considering. “I remember when I used to think that you were really suspicious. You had all those secrets and you didn’t seem to care about anything.” 

“Funny,” Claude muses. “Ingrid told me something like that a while back.” 

“Because it’s true!” Hilda exclaims. “But then you almost died saving me, and now, with everything you’ve done for the war — for us. You do care, a lot more than you want anyone to know.” 

“Come on,” Claude groans, running a hand through his hair in a show of exasperation. “That’s giving me too much credit.” 

“You can’t fool us anymore, you know. Before, maybe, but...” She leans closer, fixes him with a serious stare, and lowers her voice. “We know your big secret.” 

“Oh yeah?” He knows she’s teasing, but the suggestion still puts him on edge, especially considering that there _are_ a couple of people who know his secret now. He forces a smile and asks, “What’s that?” 

“Deep down inside,” Hilda whispers, taking her index finger and poking him in the shoulder, “Claude von Riegan is a big ol’ softy.” 

“I’m not that soft,” he objects, keeping his relief out of his tone as he tries to swat her finger away. “I’m a hardened warrior now, with scars and everything.” 

“You should see the way you look at everyone these days.” She sits up straight again, tossing her hair back. “Like you’re proud. Concerned, when they get hurt. Happy, when we celebrate a victory. You look real.” 

He inclines his head, looking up at the sky, which is tinged with pinks and oranges now that the sun is setting. “I didn’t look real before?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. 

“About as real as I did when I whined about not being able to work.” 

He makes a wordless sound of consideration, wondering if he has really changed that much, or if Hilda can see him better than others merely because they work so closely together. He doesn’t know which option he prefers. 

“That’s why we’re all going to miss you,” Hilda states, her voice dipping to give way to fondness. 

“Am I going somewhere?” Claude asks, allowing his smile to fade. 

“I know you’re leaving when this is over.” She looks back over to Felix, who now seems more at ease with Dedue and Leonie, his handling of the blade less intense. “You get so dodgy every time we talk about our plans for after the war.” 

“That’s because this war is never-ending.” He extends his arm, gesturing to the camp at large. “Here we are, heading to another final battle. There will probably be another battle after this, too.” 

She pats his arm sympathetically. “Can’t fool me.” 

He exhales audibly, feigning frustration, but puts his hand over hers. “I almost miss when you were too lazy to care.” 

“I was never _that_ lazy,” she says, sounding slightly affronted. 

“I know.” 

Felix says something, a murmur he can barely hear. It makes Sylvain and Leonie laugh. 

“Promise me we can at least have a big party before you go,” Hilda requests. 

“Like I’d ever turn down the chance for a big celebration.” 

She gives his arm a small squeeze. Across the way, Sylvain hooks his arms around Felix and Ingrid. Neither of them pull away. 

* * *

The battle at Shambhala is more of a mess than it should be. 

Claude’s scouting mission did little to prepare them for what they found underground, from the large armored ‘beasts’ controlled by mages to the relentless magic attacks. It did even less to prepare them for the javelins of light that destroyed the underground stronghold and the beast that took to the skies to fight them. Though everyone is battered and tired by the time the city crumbles around them, they scrounge up enough energy to escape before they are caught in the rubble. 

Those with Faith knowledge take turns healing everyone as best they can with their dwindling magic. Felix downs his last elixir instead of fussing with the healers, leaving them available to help others. Rhea, whose condition is critical, is sent on ahead with a few of the Knights. 

Felix joins Leonie, Marianne, and a few of the others in helping some of the injured back to camp. It takes a while to organize all the healers, but with Leonie’s clear-headed directions, Marianne’s expert knowledge on healing, and Felix’s gruff way of getting everyone to act despite the shock of the event, they eventually manage to impose some order. 

Once he’s satisfied with their progress, he goes to Claude’s tent. They had fought side-by-side for most of the battle, but the chaos in the aftermath forced them to separate. He saw Claude watching the beast fight the javelins of light, so he knows he can expect him to return in one piece. 

Felix lets himself inside the tent, finding it empty. He removes his swords and his top layer of armor, piling them in a corner. While he waits for Claude to return, he looks around the sparsely furnished tent, finding nothing of interest. Until, that is, he notices an old sword propped up behind Claude’s cot, the sheath scuffed in a familiar way. 

It’s the sword he offered Claude. 

Felix’s chest tightens as he considers how stupid it was for Claude to bring it here, toting it around when there are more important weapons to carry. 

Claude enters the tent as Felix is stepping closer to get a better look. He turns around, feeling somehow caught, even though he hadn’t been doing anything wrong. For once, however, Claude is too distracted to comment. He merely smiles in greeting as he sets down his bow and quiver, then walks over to the small chest that houses his belongings. 

He squats down carefully, favoring his left arm and wincing as he opens the chest. Felix frowns at him. Claude is too focused on rifling through his things to notice. 

“Did you see a healer?” Felix asks. 

“My crest took care of it,” Claude tells him, not even sparing a glance as he does so. 

Felix steps behind him. “Stand up.” 

“Hang on,” Claude murmurs, singularly focused on his task. 

Felix reaches with his boot to nudge Claude’s arm, gently but purposefully, which causes Claude to flinch. 

“What was that for?” he asks, finally looking up at Felix. 

“Stand up,” Felix says again. 

“Yeesh.” Claude straightens and turns to Felix. “You don’t have to kick me to get attention.” 

“When you’re like this I do,” Felix tells him. “Let me see your arm.” 

“I’m looking for something important,” Clause mildly objects. Despite his words, he attempts to pull off a glove, slowly so as not to aggravate his arm. 

“What’s so important that you can’t spare a moment to see a healer?” Felix asks, watching Claude with growing impatience. Before Claude can answer, he sighs and nudges his hand out of the way. “Stop — here.” Claude stops fussing over his glove and allows Felix to pull it off instead. 

“Some old notes from when we were in the Academy,” Claude explains as Felix takes off his other glove and tosses the pair to the cot. “They’re somewhere in there.” 

“You carry around old class notes?” If that’s the case, Claude really is too sentimental for his own good. Between a useless sword and remnants of his time at the Academy, it’s a wonder he had room to pack anything important. 

“I kept a book of them,” Claude clarifies. “I still use it from time to time. And don’t tell me it’s useless — they’re about to come in handy.” 

Felix unties Claude’s sash and pulls it away from his waist, then carefully guides Claude’s arms out of his surcoat. “It’s unnecessary weight,” Felix complains despite Claude’s preemptive protest. 

He has his fingers under the hem of Claude’s shirt now, ready to pull it over his head. Claude’s eyes are on him, though, and when Felix looks up, he sees something in them he hasn’t before — an intensity he can’t quite place and that Claude isn’t bothering to hide. His stops in mid-tug. 

“I didn’t pack anything that isn’t worth bringing.” Claude’s tone is the same as it has been throughout the conversation — airy, unconcerned, accompanied by an easy smile — but he holds Felix’s stare as he says it. 

Felix pulls the shirt over his head to break the eye contact, muttering, “I doubt that,” and trying not to dwell on the emotion elicited by the meaning behind Claude’s words. 

Now shirtless, Claude glances down at his arm appraisingly. “I guess it’s a little worse than I thought.” 

Felix throws the shirt into the pile of clothing, then turns his attention to Claude’s injury. It’s a magical burn, Felix assesses, covering much of his shoulder and reaching down his upper arm. Claude was correct in saying it had been partially healed, but the injury is still inflamed and angry. 

A healer would make quick work of it, but it isn’t serious enough to pull one away from the badly injured. “I’ll heal it,” Felix decides out loud. His Faith magic is weak, having been hastily learned on the battlefield years ago and rarely used since, but it should be able to reduce most of the burn. “Sit.” Felix places a palm on Claude’s chest with the intent of guiding him backward, but pauses upon making contact. 

Though Felix is still wearing his gloves, the fabric barrier between his palm and Claude’s chest isn’t enough to prevent him from noticing the tautness of his muscle, the warmth of his skin. He dips his head to avoid Claude’s attention and finally manages to give him a little push. 

“I’m going, I’m going,” Claude says, ignoring Felix’s momentary lapse in action. 

Felix shoves the pile of clothing out of the way. Claude sits on the cot and Felix sits beside him. 

He doesn’t have to remove his gloves to use his Faith magic, but he does anyway, adding them to Claude’s collection of removed clothing. When he looks back at Claude, his eyes don’t immediately return to the injury, but instead sweep over his torso. Claude’s skin is smooth for someone who is so frequently in battle; he has scars, but they are fewer and less dramatic than Felix’s. 

Felix supposes that is the benefit of his crest — instant healing must reduce the amount of damage caused by injuries. His own body is more marred, the result of training incidents he didn’t bother to have healed when he was younger, the cost of using Reason magic, and his two serious injuries, which created large scars in the places where Claude held him together to keep him alive. 

His eyes linger over one of the only prominent scars on Claude’s chest, positioned just over his heart. He must stare too obviously for too long, because Claude attempts to divert his attention. 

“I didn’t know you had Faith magic,” he says, a delicate but present accusation in his tone, insinuating that Felix kept his ability to heal from him intentionally. 

“It wasn’t worth mentioning.” Felix focuses on his arm. He raises his hands and attempts to concentrate. 

“Who knew you were so good at keeping secrets?” Claude murmurs, a lilt in his tone. 

No magic flows from Felix’s hands. “It isn’t a secret.” He tries again. 

“I, as your leader and the man you gave your sword to,” Claude begins while Felix, immediately irritated by Claude giving voice to his grand gesture, loses focus once again, “should know these things.” 

“Are you implying that you are the only one who is allowed to keep secrets?” Felix forces out between clenched teeth, dropping his hands into his lap and considering giving up entirely. Not only is he now entirely distracted by Claude, his choice of conversation, and the fact that he is sitting in a state of partial undress, but Felix’s Faith magic has always been tenuous at best. Whether due to a self-fulfilling prophecy created in an attempt to rebel against his father’s chosen skill or a genuine lack of talent, Felix isn’t sure. What he does know is his magic is weak and, apparently, prone to being affected by his emotions, which are currently rising. 

“That’s unfair,” Claude counters. Though he doesn’t sound wounded, Felix can tell he’s struck something that’s been weighing on his mind. 

He immediately feels guilty, but that only makes him angrier. “Is it?” he scoffs, reaching over for his gloves again. “I’ll find a healer.” 

Claude catches his wrist before he can begin putting on his gloves. Against his better judgment, Felix doesn’t fight against him. "What do you want to know?” Claude asks, offering a rare chance to voice whatever may be on his mind. 

Felix has spent a lot of time wondering about Claude. From the very beginning, he was an enigma, which made it difficult to trust him. He understands much more now, but there are still pieces of Claude that remain under lock and key, buried beyond Felix’s knowledge. There are many questions that Felix could ask him. 

But Felix decided to offer his sword to Claude without knowing everything about him. He chose to accept how he feels — and how Claude feels about him — without demanding answers. He has come to trust Claude’s mind and to accept that he has reasons for his secrets. 

That level of commitment means not using the weapons that are handed to him on a silver platter. It means turning down an opportunity that could hurt the person he’s chosen to fight alongside. Felix therefore only says, “I want to know if you’re capable of shutting up so I can focus.” 

Claude’s eyes are serious, but he exhales an empty chuckle. “Sure, I can do that.” He offers his arm again. 

Healing magic requires the caster to have Faith, and Felix has always struggled with believing in those in whom he was required to place his Faith — his father, Dimitri and his bloodlust, the Goddess. This time, however, when he raises his hands and closes his eyes, he thinks about how he has chosen to place his faith in Claude — a leader who still occasionally looks like he expects Felix to change his mind; a man who has seemingly never been offered something so freely. 

When he thinks of Claude sitting beside him, partially exposed and vulnerable, yet still and quiet as Felix works, he feels heat in his hands. The magic flows out of him, bright and warm. When he opens his eyes, the wound is mostly healed. 

Felix touches it, half-expecting the remaining redness to betray an imperfect heal, but Claude doesn’t flinch away from his fingertips. Seemingly on their own accord, Felix’s fingers move upward, to his shoulder, tracing the length of the mostly healed burn. 

Claude is watching him, appearing at ease, no tension in the way he holds himself, but his eyes are hard and assessing, like he’s trying to analyze how Felix is feeling at this moment, waiting for the other boot to drop. Felix doesn’t know what else Claude expects him to find, what secrets could be here, written on his skin, because all he sees is a fading mark, all he feels is _Claude_. 

But Claude isn’t relaxed, and that causes Felix to second-guess himself, to question his own touch. Claude may laugh and present himself as unaffected by the cruelty of the world, but he craves gentle touch. Felix realized that the first time they truly kissed, and he can see that now, with the way Claude sharply inhales as Felix bows his head to lightly press his lips against what remains of the wound — the way he tenses, as though now unable to hold it back. 

Felix thinks about how he isn’t good with being gentle, regardless of his attempts at being soft. He has tried, but all he has to offer is rough edges and a sharp tongue unable to put voice to how he feels. He can only give harshness and receive it in turn. This time, when he runs his fingers downward over the smoothed skin of Claude’s arm, he thinks about the blood on his hands, the acid in his words, and unable to contain himself, he abruptly stands and steps back. 

“Hey —” Claude calls. 

“You’re fine,” Felix tells him, words brusque like the rest of him. “Go find your notes.” 

“Felix, hang on.” Claude stands, too, but Felix is already leaving the tent. 

* * *

Claude has always considered himself to be relatively good with people. Although his mysterious background and refusal to speak in detail about his past slowed down the progress of his friendships in the beginning, he has always been both charming and empathetic in ways that he believes eventually work in his favor. In fact, his people skills have helped him in ways he previously didn’t deem possible, as he now has the trust of his peers and the support he needs to finally bring this war to a close. Were it one year ago, he wouldn’t have anticipated being looked upon so favorably. 

Where his skills fail to carry him is through the feeling of exposure and into the support freely given to him by the one person who has offered a deep and unquestioning loyalty, who accepts him beyond his tendencies to over-analyze and pull back when he gets too close. 

This still-unnamed relationship that has finally been officiated through the offering of a sword presents a new challenge: Claude doesn’t know how to be vulnerable. He doesn’t know how to lay everything out in the open, how to put into words where he has been and what he has experienced, to name his fears and describe what awaits him in Almyra. He only knows how to cover all of these feelings with a joke, a deflection, or an obscure anecdote told in third person, from a distance. 

He’s trying, but he can’t shake the feeling that he and Felix often operate on different wavelengths when it comes to what they are willing to give and take. Felix wanted something from Claude after healing his arm, and Claude failed to give it. But he doesn’t know what Felix hoped to see in him — what he should have given or how he should have looked as Felix kissed his arm so intimately. 

And that’s why, after giving Felix his space for a while, he goes to his tent with Felix’s armor and weapons in one arm and his notebook in the other. 

He slips in unannounced, but Felix doesn’t react with alarm. From his position on his cot, seated and oiling a dagger in the candlelight, he merely looks up, asks, “What?” and then looks back down. 

“I brought your armor,” Claude explains as he sets it in a corner for Felix to sort through later. He adds his notebook to the pile as well. 

Felix doesn’t respond. 

Claude sits next to him. Felix doesn’t look up. 

Claude takes off his shirt. 

That causes Felix’s attention to snap upward in surprised confusion. 

“You were looking at this earlier,” Claude states, reaching for Felix’s hand. Felix drops the dagger and oiled cloth into his lap, passively allowing Claude to move his hand. Claude brings it to his chest and places Felix’s palm above his heart. 

“I wasn’t —” Felix nearly protests, but cuts himself off. 

“It’s from an assassination attempt,” Claude continues. He releases Felix’s hand, but Felix doesn’t pull it back. He keeps it positioned on Claude’s chest, his fingers tracing the marred skin. “It happened in Almyra.” 

Felix’s eyes narrow, but the emotion that burns within them isn’t for Claude. It’s for those responsible, Claude recognizes. The touch along his scar remains careful. 

Felix slowly says, “Because you’re important there.” 

This is what Claude wants to offer him: a real truth. The only truth. Even with what Felix has given him, this still feels incredibly risky and stupid, like he is signing his own death certificate. His trust is true, and Felix has never done anything to hurt him, not even when Claude deserved it, and yet the words are still so thick on his tongue, he almost cannot move them. 

But he does. He says it clearly: “My father is the King of Almyra.” 

Felix’s fingertips stop moving. His hand goes still and his body tenses as though Claude has just dropped some terrible news on his shoulders. And, he supposes, he has. The statement, though brief and to the point, outlines all the difficulties of their relationship, of Felix’s complex feelings about loyalty and royalty, and of what looms in the future before them. 

He expects anger. Maybe some resentment. Perhaps a little sadness, too. 

But Felix breaks the silence by laughing. The sound that leaves his lips is low and only escapes for a moment, but is truly mirthful. 

It is the first time that Claude has ever heard Felix genuinely laugh. 

“You would be the crown prince of Almyra.” He says it lighter than most statements that leave his tongue, pulling back his hand so he can pick up the dagger and cloth and set them aside, a silent way of allowing Claude’s presence for a more prolonged period of time. 

“You’re taking this well,” Claude comments skeptically, anticipating a shift in Felix’s emotions at any moment. 

Felix merely shrugs. “Who better to fight at your side than a Fraldarius who was raised to support a would-be King?” There’s no bitterness in his tone. It sounds more like acceptance. 

It sounds like Felix has already considered this option and come to terms with it. 

“Did...Did you know?” Claude asks in absolute disbelief. 

“You admitted you were important there,” Felix says. “It isn’t that much of a leap in logic, although I thought I was being dramatic in thinking you were so high up.” 

“I don’t believe this,” Claude groans, falling back on the cot and draping his arm over his face. “That was the hardest confession of my life and you found it funny.” But he feels relieved enough to laugh a little himself, especially as he admits, “I still never know what to expect from you.” 

“You can expect that I know how to keep up with you now.” Felix lies down beside him and takes the initiative of placing his hand over Claude’s chest again. This time, however, he doesn’t seek the scar, but rather merely rests his palm in the center. “You overthink to such an extent, it’s beginning to wear off on me.” 

“Is this pillow talk?” Claude asks. “It doesn’t sound like pillow talk.” 

Felix moves his hand so he can place a finger over Claude’s lips. “Be quiet.” He sounds embarrassed, but when Claude turns his head to look at him, he sees no color in Felix’s cheeks. Instead, he looks determined, almost as if he’s about to go into battle. 

Claude doesn't speak. 

“I don’t know,” Felix begins, then breaks off. He shifts like he’s going to move closer, then seems to change his mind and moves away from him instead, sitting up. “I don’t know how to give you what you need.” 

“You’ve given me more —” 

“Don’t,” Felix cuts him off. “I can’t be what you — what you should —” 

Claude also sits up so he can guide Felix back down. Felix allows himself to be pulled onto his back, but he remains tense and won’t look at Claude. Claude accepts that as his turn to take the initiative — to give. He moves closer and tucks his arm around Felix. “You know, I was thinking about the same thing earlier. That I don’t know how to do this.” 

Felix glances at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“It’s true.” These admissions do not come to him easily, but now that he placed his biggest secret on the table, they at least seem smaller in comparison. “Maybe we’re trying too hard.” 

Felix’s chest rises and falls several times before he answers a dry, “Maybe.” 

“And maybe we should stop thinking about what we’re doing right or wrong and instead just let it happen.” 

Again, only this time less flat in tone: “Maybe.” 

Claude rests his forehead against Felix’s shoulder. “I’ll show you,” he murmurs as he dips his hand under the hem of Felix’s shirt and teases his fingers along his stomach. He can feel Felix tensing once again, though this time it’s a physical, rather than emotional, reaction. 

Felix pushes back his hand. Claude looks up at him in surprise but barely has time to register the small smirk that Felix wears as he’s pushed onto his back. “Not if I show you first,” Felix says, voice low and gravelly in a way that sends a shiver down Claude’s spine. 

“Is that a challenge?” Claude asks as Felix straddles him, but the question barely leaves his lips before Felix leans in to kiss him, stealing away any further banter that might have formed on his lips. 

When Felix tugs at his clothing and touches him in ways far more intimate than his earlier kiss on his arm, Claude can feel passion radiating from every movement. And when Claude rises to his challenge and offers his own genuine ardor in the way he runs his hands down Felix’s back and grips his hips, he feels that they are being completely open and honest for the first time. 

They offer themselves up to each other, and accept each other in turn. 

Claude has never felt so close to anyone, and when Felix looks at him with unreserved tenderness, as though Claude is someone to be treasured, Claude knows he feels the same. 

* * *

Felix has trouble in the aftermath. 

They both do. 

Feeling raw both physically and emotionally, they rest apart from each other, quietly, until Claude finally turns over and drapes an arm across Felix. Felix places a hand on Claude’s arm, and any awkwardness that surfaced between them drains away once they reinstate that physical contact. 

After taking some time to enjoy how easily they can overcome their struggles to slide back into comfort, Claude speaks. “I found my notebook.” 

Felix snorts. “Of course you did.” 

“Want to see?” 

Felix sighs as if greatly inconvenienced by this offer, but grumbles out, “Fine, show me what’s so important.” 

Silly though it may be, Claude is a little excited at the prospect of having someone with whom he can share his thoughts and discoveries. He feels almost childish in the way he hops off the cot to retrieve his book and then returns with energy in his step. He climbs back beside Felix, who glares at him affectionately. 

Claude turns to the page he folded over, revealing a sketch of the Immaculate One. “Behold! Rhea in all her glory.” 

Claude explains what he knows and what he has pieced together since the battle. Felix listens, offering the occasional insightful comment. 

Before they realize how much time passes, dawn breaks across the sky and light seeps into the tent, heralding a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: The end of the war (for real this time). 
> 
> I finally committed to a chapter count. There are two chapters left of the main story and then one epilogue chapter, so three more until the very end. I can't believe we are in the final stretch! Thank you so much for reading, commenting, subscribing, leaving kudos, and being so supportive of this fic. I definitely wouldn't have made it this far without all that encouragement. It means a lot! I hope you enjoy the last few chapters :)


	19. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the war
> 
> Or:
> 
> "Lysithea, frantically digging up her conspiracy board from where she discarded it five years ago: I fucking knew it." - troofless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section of this chapter contains some introspection about grief

During the Verdant Rain Moon, the journey from Garreg Mach to Fhirdiad should be wrought with thunderstorms and a chill should greet any rider who crosses into Faerghus. Felix, Sylvain, and Ingrid are dressed for rain and mud, but as they cross the Tailtean plains, they find only mild weather, as though the skies have decided to hold back in celebration of yet another victory. 

Sylvain and Ingrid wish to travel leisurely, whereas Felix is eager to return as soon as possible. Nevertheless, he humors them and allows them to set a slow pace with only mild complaint. In exchange, they don’t voice their surprise at his decision to accompany them on this journey. They don’t prod into his affairs or ask about the way he and Claude had parted — with a lingering clasping of hands and parting words spoken quietly against each other’s ears. 

They speak occasionally, not of their destination, but rather, of small and insignificant memories, of victories and the approaching end of the war. When they fall quiet, Felix thinks of Claude and the secret he now knows — a secret that not even Sylvain has fully guessed. 

He thinks about how long and often he struggled against the concept of purpose — against a role in court, against his place at a King’s side — and how when given a final chance to fully rebel against it, his most natural inclination was to accept. 

Before he had offered his sword, Felix had decided that Claude would make a decent ruler once he cleaned up his flippant attitude. At that time, he had assumed that Claude would preside over Fódlan; now he knows that his true place is in Almyra. 

“I actually think you’d like it there,” Claude had told him after Shambhala, as dawn broke across the sky and their intimate time together came to a close. “You’d fit right in.” 

It would be difficult, he had explained, in more ways than one. Claude still had to earn the throne, because being a prince guaranteed him nothing. Felix would be seen as an outsider and scorned, were he to attempt to start a life there before changes were implemented. They would have to worry about political ramifications and assasination attempts. They would need to consider the possibility that Claude may not ascend to the throne. 

Felix has spent most of his adult life struggling with emotions. He has dismissed the idea that he could be more than his sword, has struggled with regulating his anger, and has never been all that talented in communicating with kind words. 

But this he has known to be true since the moment he decided to offer his sword: he wants to remain at Claude’s side. He wants to protect Claude, to use his skills to keep him safe, regardless of where Claude travels in pursuit of his dreams. He wants to continue this path he’s chosen, even if it takes him beyond Fódlan’s borders. 

If that means falling in step with a King, wielding his tongue along with his sword, and relearning what it is to support a man who will achieve great things — Felix has already made his choice. 

He will not change his mind. 

In Fhirdiad, the citizens are trying to rebuild. Sylvain and Ingrid speak with some of them while Felix scouts ahead. By the time they arrive at their destination, the sky is already shifting toward evening, with shades of pink and orange cast against the clouds. 

“Look at that sky,” Ingrid remarks as they slow their horses and begin to dismount. 

Sylvain hands them small bouquets of bright blue flowers that were grown by Dedue in the greenhouse back at Garreg Mach. Because the weather has been kind, they still look vibrant and very much alive. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sylvain asks, giving Felix one final chance to change his mind. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Felix asks, but there’s no bite in his words. 

“You are,” Ingrid agrees. “Come on.” 

They walk the rest of the way, flowers in hand, until they reach it — a grave amidst the Blaiddyd burial plot. It’s simpler than it should be, having been constructed during the worst of the war. Byleth has already made clear her plans to fix it up in the future as part of her efforts to honor those who lost their lives during the war. Felix doesn’t like how plain it looks, but he would just as soon spurn a gaudy stone. 

Felix simply doesn’t like that it exists at all. 

But it does exist, and they are now standing before it. 

Ingrid goes first, kneeling in front of the grave, quietly saying goodbye before she places the flowers against it. Sylvain goes next, less formal in posture but no less somber as he murmurs something Felix chooses not to hear. He adds his flowers to Ingrid’s. 

Felix doesn’t move. Neither Ingrid nor Sylvain urge him to. They wait patiently. 

His grip on the flowers tightens as he considers moving forward. His teeth clench. His resolve wavers. 

But he does move forward, step by step, slowly but without losing footing, until he stands before the grave. He gracelessly drops the flowers. They fall against the others, then roll off to the side. It looks pathetic. 

Felix doesn’t move. Neither Ingrid nor Sylvain urge him back. They wait patiently. 

A raindrop falls from the sky and hits Felix’s cheek. It slowly streaks its way downward, staining his skin. 

This, Felix thinks as he drops to his knees, is what he understands about grief: nothing at all. 

Felix has known grief his whole life. He knew the loss of his mother before he could talk. He knew the loss of his brother before he could fend for himself. And now he knows the loss of the man who should have been King, the one person that Felix had always, deep down inside, wanted to help. The one person he failed. 

Felix doesn’t believe in stringing gravestones around his neck. He fights with every fiber of his being against the lure of maniacal revenge, has struggled against dwelling on what Dimitri would have wanted from him throughout this war. But even now, having stopped Edelgard and removed the underground threat, Felix feels unfulfilled. He feels as though he let Dimitri down. 

Angrily, Felix digs at his cheeks with his fingernails and tries to wipe the rain away. More drops fall from the sky. 

He thinks of Dimitri, and he thinks of Dimitri, and he thinks of Dimitri, until he has no other thoughts, until he thinks — 

— of Dimitri yet again, only this time it’s a memory from the Blue Lions classroom, Dimitri looking concerned, Dimitri saying, Dimitri _meaning_, “My only wish is for all of you to be happy.” 

Stupid, Felix thinks. They were all so stupid back then. 

This is what Felix understands about grief: nothing at all. 

But maybe he doesn’t need to understand. Maybe it’s about acceptance, letting it happen, moving forward around the hole that will always exist within him. Maybe he will remove the word _boar_ from his vocabulary and allow the rain to linger on his cheek. Maybe he will reach forward and fix the flowers that he tossed so carelessly. Maybe he won’t string a gravestone around his neck, but instead hold one close to his heart, and acknowledge, and remember. 

Maybe, when he finally stands up and turns around to find Ingrid and Sylvain reaching for him, hugging him, Felix won’t pull away. 

Maybe he’ll hug them back. 

* * *

They intend to head to their territories next, but a messenger finds them before they depart. Felix accepts the letter and reads it first to himself, and then out loud. 

_The war is not yet over. We face another threat._

He doesn’t read the closing sentence to Sylvain and Ingrid; that he keeps to himself: _I need you at my side_. 

“We’re going back,” Felix announces. 

_I’m coming_. 

* * *

Felix arrives in the middle of a war council. He takes his place at Claude’s right side while Claude explains what they know of the enemy. They do not look at each other unless necessary; they remain formal and professional throughout the council meeting. 

When it ends, Claude fills Felix in on the extra details about crests and Nemesis that he learned from Rhea. Felix treats Claude as he always does after a meeting: he challenges his decisions and rants about their go-forward plans. Claude, as usual, defends his positions and counters some of Felix’s points; others, he accepts. They alter some plans and leave many the same. 

They ultimately work as a team. 

Only after they have discussed his frustrations and concerns in full does Felix finally soften, his scowl giving way to a gentler expression, though his tone retains its characteristic curt quality. “And you?” 

Claude raises his eyebrows, teasing him by pretending not to understand. “And me what?” 

Felix rolls his eyes and asks with little patience, “How are you?” 

“I’d be better if you’d remind me that you like me for more than my ability to argue with you,” Claude points out. 

When Felix smirks, he looks freer — better than he has throughout this entire war. As Claude suspected, the trip to Fhirdiad was good for him. And he had returned right when he was needed. 

He came back to him and is now at his side once more. 

Claude hadn’t doubted him, per se, but he had wondered if Fhirdiad would change his perspective. It seems those worries were unfounded. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Felix says, standing and walking over to Claude’s chair. He places his hands on the armrests, effectively trapping Claude in his seat as he stares down at him. “You know I’m only here for the challenge.” 

Claude grabs his shirt and tugs him closer. Felix allows himself to be pulled. Into his ear, Claude whispers, “Liar.” 

Felix laughs, a sound that is still far too rare, but that Claude hopes will become more common in the future. 

Claude laughs, too. And maybe he feels a little freer as well. A little more genuine. A little lighter, even with a dangerous battle looming ahead. 

Maybe he’s happy. Maybe they both are. 

Felix winds up in his lap. Claude kisses him. 

They don’t make it out of the Cardinal’s Room until much later. 

* * *

All the knowledge of crests in the world couldn’t prepare them for what they end up facing when they clash with Nemesis and his army. They make quick work of the Agarthans, but the Elites prove to be a more difficult foe. Those on wyverns and pegasi have an easier time fighting, given that they can avoid the poisoned swamp, but the cavalry and unmounted units struggle. 

It’s difficult for Claude and Felix to fight side by side. Felix realizes this before Claude has an opportunity to give him alternative directions. Felix yells out, “Go!” right before he’s attacked by Fraldarius, who swoops down with her pegasus to shove him back into the swamp. 

Claude waits long enough to confirm Felix has an antidote on him; he watches him loop around Fraldarius to the safety of land before downing it. Then Claude goes to help Raphael, who stands in the swamp and faces two Elites at once, in dire need of assistance. 

Eventually, they defeat all ten Elites and clear the magic poisoning the swamp. Then come the demonic beasts. By the time they are defeated and the summoner is put to rest, everyone is exhausted. There is not one person who doesn’t have a wound of some kind — Claude took an arrow in the shoulder and Felix, who finds his place at Claude’s side once again, is limping. 

Byleth has it the worst. Several of her ribs are broken and her leg has a nasty open wound in need of attention, Marianne quickly determines as she attempts to heal her. Holding out a hand, Byleth stops her before she can call on her magic. 

“Save it,” Byleth says. “You need everything you have for Nemesis.” 

“We need you with us. You're our commander,” Claude reminds her. 

Byleth shakes her head. “Look around you, Claude.” 

He does as instructed, his eyes taking in all of his former Golden Deer, who await his orders to encroach on Nemesis, and Felix, who still stands at his side. All of them battered but trusting in him — ready to give him everything they have so this final battle can be won. 

“You have everyone you need,” Byleth states as she hands over her remaining elixirs — two of them, which Claude can give to the worst of the injured. 

He would feel better with Byleth fighting with him — guiding their troops, as she has all along — but he understands this lesson. Just as his friends trust him to lead them to victory, he must trust that they can make it through this final fight. Together. 

He nods. Byleth smiles. Claude turns away from her and faces his friends. 

“This is it!” Claude yells, trying to rouse everyone’s morale. “The final fight. Let’s do it!” Then he begins calling out commands, ordering them to create a formation that will surround Nemesis so they can work together to take him out. He hands out the elixirs — one to Ingrid, the other to Raphael. Then he motions them onward. 

With everyone on the move, Claude looks at Felix. “You ready?” 

“What do you think?” Felix’s face is serious, his sword drawn and ready. 

Claude grins. “Me too.” 

He urges his wyvern forward. Felix keeps pace beside him. 

It goes far more smoothly than Claude could have anticipated. Sylvain flanks Nemesis and strikes with his lance. Raphael follows with a heavy blow. Ignatz shoots an arrow. Lorenz is struck by Nemesis’ sword, but remains on horseback, ready for another round. Merecedes heals him without missing a beat. They slowly whittle down Nemesis’ health without fatalities. 

Nemesis, in his strange droning voice, accuses them of being weak. “You lack the courage to challenge me in lone combat!” he roars at Claude. 

“Yet we have the strength to scale the walls between us!” Claude shouts back at him. “To reach out our hands in friendship, so we can open our true hearts to one another!” 

He looks at Felix, who nods at him, a hint of a smile on his lips. Felix looks toward Hilda, who turns to grin at Sylvain, who gives a thumbs-up to Annette, who waves to Marianne. The chain continues from one person to the next until it reaches Claude again. 

“That’s how we win!” Felix yells as Claude readies Failnaught. Their eyes meet. They don’t need words for what comes next. 

Claude shoots an arrow into the sky while Felix runs to be the decoy. Felix attacks Nemesis, their swords clashing. Felix manages to hold him at bay for one long moment, heels digging into the ground, expression resolute. Then Nemesis effortlessly knocks him to the side and Felix flies several feet through the air before colliding with the ground. 

Hilda steps in and immediately swings her axe at Nemesis, keeping him distracted as the arrow falls from the sky and pierces his arm. Between the strike of the axe and the arrow wound, Nemesis is too caught off guard to do anything but bellow in frustration when Ingrid flies forward on her pegasus and lands the final strike with her lance. 

Nemesis falls. 

Claude goes to Felix and reaches out his hand. Felix grasps it and allows Claude to pull him to his feet. Everyone crowds around them, cheering their success. 

“You led us to victory, Mister Leader Man,” Hilda announces with a grin. 

“He did,” Sylvain agrees. 

“It's finally over,” Marianne observes with a smile. 

The cheers grow louder. 

Claude and Felix, still holding hands, join in. 

When it’s over, Claude is positive that the final battle will live on in history books, plays, and songs for many years to come. This, he thinks to himself as he smiles at his friends — truly smiles, without holding back — is how you win a war. 

With the support of your people — the trust of your friends. 

* * *

True to his word, Claude throws a grand party to celebrate both the end of the war and Byleth’s coronation. It starts out lively, with food and drink, and then settles into a more formal ball, with music and dancing. 

Byleth is the center of attention, but Claude is also the man of the hour. Every time he tries to slip away, he’s swept up in conversation, asked to recount his efforts in the war or guess at Byleth’s plans for the future of nobility. Everyone is interested in his plans moving forward now that they know he’s leaving, but Claude still keeps that piece of information close to his chest. He has work to do before that grand reveal. 

When he finally has a moment of peace, he looks for Felix. 

He finds him leaning against a wall, looking mildly annoyed with the festivities, but Claude immediately recognizes it as surface annoyance. He caught glances of him earlier — talking with Raphael, smiling at Annette, giving into Hilda’s demands for a dance — so he knows that Felix has enjoyed himself. 

His hair is down — loose because Claude likes it that way — and he looks good in his chosen formal attire. He looks even better when he notices Claude and struggles to keep his anticipation out of his expression. 

“May I have this dance?” Claude asks, smiling his best, most genuine smile as he holds out his hand. 

Felix tries and fails to scowl. “You know I don’t like dancing,” he complains as he takes Claude’s hand. 

Claude leads him to the dance floor. “I think you like it more than you let on,” he teases. 

Claude pulls him close, settling a hand on his hip. Felix allows him the lead. 

Years of war have not dulled Felix’s skill in dancing. He still moves with confidence, his footwork still superior to Claude’s. Claude isn’t as prone to fumbling as he used to be, however, and he makes that clear as he twirls Felix in time with the music, then pulls him close once more. He practiced in secret leading up to this party, a small scheme, so he could surprise Felix with the finale. 

“You’ve improved,” Felix whispers to him as the song nears its end. 

“Watch this,” Claude murmurs back to him with a wink. 

It’s time for the big finish. He pulls apart from Felix, keeping hold of his hand, then pulls him close once more. Before Felix has a chance to figure out what he has planned, Claude wraps an arm around his waist and lifts him into a spin. He can feel Felix tense against him in surprise, but he allows the flourish — he trusts Claude not to drop him. 

Upon finishing the spin, he sets Felix back down and twirls him twice. The music surges with one final climax and Claude dips Felix low, then holds him tightly in his arms. Felix looks him in the eye, looking as breathless as Claude feels, mild annoyance giving way to simple enjoyment. 

Claude kisses him as he had during a dance years prior, only this time, he does not hold back. And when Felix accepts the kiss, parting his lips as his hand tightens on Claude’s shoulder, there’s no hesitancy in it. They kiss with no ulterior motive; they kiss because it’s what they want to do. 

The music ends. Claude pulls Felix back to his feet. They let go of each other and look around. 

Only then, their attention no longer zeroed in on each other, do they see that they have an audience. All of their friends surround them, looking different shades of amused, happy, and surprised. 

“I told you,” Leonie says to Dedue. 

“You did,” Dedue replies. 

Turning her attention to Mercedes, Annette asks, “Did you know?” 

“I wondered,” Mercedes replies. 

Raphael looks misty-eyed as he pats Felix on the back. “Congrats! When’s the wedding?” 

“I’m happy for you both,” Marianne says to them. 

Sylvain puts a hand on Claude’s shoulder. “It’s about time.” 

“Tell me about it,” Hilda groans, though she grins at the two of them. 

Ingrid looks happy for them, but she still sighs and shakes her head, as if anticipating more trouble from them in the future. 

“You two always look so happy together,” Ignatz states. 

Lysithea says, “I knew it when I saw you two playing games in the library back at the Academy.” 

A silence falls over everyone. It stretches on as Felix’s cheeks gain color and Claude holds back a laugh. 

Lorenz finally breaks it with a loud, “_That_ long ago?” 

Felix looks off to the side, embarrassed, but he doesn’t shy away when Claude takes his hand. 

“That long ago,” Claude admits, giving Felix’s hand a squeeze. 

Felix squeezes back. 

* * *

Goodbyes have always been easy for Claude. Leaving Almyra hadn’t been difficult, even at the prospect of not seeing his parents for years. He had anticipated that leaving Fódlan would be the same. When you are treated with cruelty everywhere you go, it’s easy to turn your back on one place in exchange for another. 

There’s no cruelty here, though. There are only friends, each of them offering a warm word, a kind touch, as they give their parting farewells. Even Lorenz, once having considered himself a rival, tells Claude he will be missed. Even Ingrid, having been thoroughly upset with Claude on more than one occasion, tells him to take care of himself. Everyone has something nice to say, and everyone looks sad now that the time has come for him to leave. 

Claude wears a fake smile for the first time since the final battle — he keeps his final goodbyes pleasant and happy, and promises to see everyone again. This is the first time he’s had trouble with schooling his expression in a long time; waving one final time and turning his back on the group is incredibly hard for him. Here, he has acceptance. Here, he is loved. 

But if he was able to achieve this in Fódlan, then he can do it in Almyra. And he will return, as a King seeking to remove barriers, as a man achieving his dreams. 

Felix doesn’t attend the gathering. He waits for Claude in his old dormitory room, sitting on the bed, hands empty of a task, his sword belt set aside. When Claude sits beside him, Felix sighs because he knows this is it. 

This is goodbye. 

Claude brushes stray hair out of Felix’s face. Felix’s fingers curl against his lap. 

“I’m coming back for you.” He has said this several times now, but he worries that Felix doesn’t believe him, or will forget, or will lose himself to the lure of deadly fighting before Claude can bring him home. 

He would bring him now, if he could. If it wouldn’t affect his play for the crown. 

“I know.” Felix doesn’t look at him. 

“Do you believe me?” 

Felix nods, the motion so slight, it is nearly imperceptible. “Do you believe me when I say I do?” he asks after a pause. 

Claude exhales a laugh. “When did you get so perceptive?” 

Felix shrugs, his attention on his hands. 

“Felix.” 

Felix looks at him. 

“I love you.” 

Felix’s body goes rigid. A cloud of emotions passes over his face. He stares at Claude, breath catching in his chest, until he finally breaks eye contact to look at the wall and ask with irritation, “Why are you telling me that now?” 

“It seemed important,” Claude tells him with a small smile he doesn’t quite feel. In truth, the admission is difficult for him, even this far along in their relationship. It’s another vulnerability, another level of honesty stacked on the rest. 

It is also what Felix deserves to hear. 

Felix’s chest rises and falls several times before he answers a clipped, “Okay.” 

There’s a small flare of disappointment in Claude’s heart, but he reminds himself that this isn’t easy for Felix, either. He struggles with his feelings, and right now, facing Claude’s departure, he is feeling many things. 

So Claude doesn’t allow his disappointment to show. He takes Felix in his arms. Felix rests his head on his shoulder. They stay like that for as long as they can. 

Then it’s time for him to leave. Claude extracts himself from Felix and reaches into his riding cloak to pull out a sheet of paper. “Here. This is for you.” 

Felix takes it, frowning down at it. “Where did you get this?” 

“Ignatz drew it a while back. I thought I’d give it to you so you’d have something to remember me by.” 

On the paper is the sketch of Felix sleeping against Claude’s shoulder, both of them looking happy and at peace. 

Felix swallows, setting the paper down on the bed. “Thanks.” 

Claude waits for several minutes, giving Felix space to collect himself and decide if he wants to say anything. 

When he says nothing at all, Claude stands, then bends down to kiss the top of his head. “Until later,” he murmurs. 

He leaves, shutting the door behind him so he can sag against it as he allows his mask to drop. He knew this would be difficult, but he hadn’t expected Felix to shut down after all the progress they’ve made. 

It hurts. 

But Claude has a job to do now. He steels himself and then turns to leave the dormitory for the last time. 

He only makes it two steps before the door opens and Felix steps out. 

“Did —” Claude begins to ask, but Felix cuts him off by shoving him against the wall and kissing him, bottled up passion and emotion leaking through. One hand grabs Claude’s cloak, the other braces against the wall, and Felix tells him without words how he feels — lip and tongue imparting the three words he neglected to say. 

When he ends the kiss, he only pulls back enough to look Claude in the eye and say in a rush of intensity, “I love you.” He then pushes himself away, putting space between them again. “Go.” 

Felix heads back into the room without sparing Claude another glance. Claude stares after him, feeling breathless and happy. 

Happy and loved. 

He carries that feeling all the way to Almyra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude's speech about scaling walls, friendship, and opening hearts comes from canon. 
> 
> Next time: Everyone keeps busy


	20. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the war, Felix and Claude work toward new beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out this [gorgeous fanart of this fic](https://twitter.com/Pasywasy/status/1240437691885342720) by @pasywasy! It’s lovely - thank you! 
> 
> Claude’s real name was revealed in an interview recently, but since we are already through the emotional climax of this fic, I am not including a name reveal and instead will continue on with business (and names) as usual.

After the war, Felix abandons his title. 

He doesn’t do it immediately. Following Byleth’s coronation, he accepts his role in cleaning up Faerghus and holds his post while Fódlan rebuilds. With Ingrid remaining in Garreg Mach and Sylvain focusing his efforts on Sreng, Felix ends up becoming the defacto representative of Faerghus during the transitional period of unification. He doesn’t enjoy any aspect of that role, but he doesn’t do it for himself. He does it for Dimitri, who would have wanted to see Faerghus prosper once more, for Claude, whose dreams of peace require an improved and functional Fódlan, and, though he struggles to admit this even now, for his father, who would have wanted Felix to revitalize Fraldarius lands. 

It takes months of work to reach a place of relative stability. Felix spends most of his time settling disputes among the nobility, who grow increasingly concerned over their diminishing importance under unificiation. When he isn’t enduring squabbles, he’s busy trying to allocate the limited funds available for rebuilding, visiting territories, and reporting back to Garreg Mach to bring issues to Byleth’s attention. 

If anyone asks after Claude — which they often do, as nearly everyone he knows is incredibly nosy about his personal matters — Felix explains that he’s far too busy to mope over his disappearance and _no_, he will not divulge his whereabouts, nor will he explain what he’s up to these days. This refusal to provide details usually leads to a follow-up question of, _Has he written you?_, after which Felix shuts down the conversation. 

Because he doesn’t hear from Claude for _months_. 

Granted, they discussed this possibility before Claude’s departure. Claude had explained that he would be extremely busy as soon as he arrived back in Almyra. After years abroad, he would have to catch up on internal affairs and work hard to reestablish himself as politically relevant. Add in the distance and logistics in sending letters across the border, and it’s no surprise that he hears nothing. 

Logical understanding doesn’t lessen the emotional weight of missing Claude, though. And while Felix may not say as much to anyone who asks, he does open up to two people in particular: Ingrid and Sylvain. 

Newly knighted into Byleth’s service, Ingrid has little free time these days. Sylvain is busy as well, getting his territory back into decent shape while simultaneously trying to establish a point of contact with Sreng in hopes of future peace negotiations. It’s rare that their schedules manage to line up, but when they do, they try to meet. 

This time, they gather in Fraldarius Manor to sit in front of a fire and drink what remains of Felix’s father’s liquor stores while reminiscing about old times. Eventually, the conversation turns to Felix, which then transitions to Claude, and only because it’s _them_, he admits: “I’m concerned.” 

“I would be too,” Ingrid says from behind the rim of her glass, idly swirling the liquid around. She sits beside Felix on a settee, relaxed in a way that Felix hasn’t seen her in years. “He should have written by now.” 

“Nah, I wouldn’t worry.” Sylvain is draped over a chair, looking the very picture of _lazy_, glass hanging loose in his grip. “I’ve been trying to get a message across the border to Sreng for weeks now, so I know how much drama is involved in cross-border communication.” 

“The merchants manage, somehow,” Ingrid points out. “How do you think I managed to find Almyran Pine Needles for Felix?” 

“Where money is involved, anything is possible,” Sylvain states. 

“You don’t think Claude has money?” Ingrid asks. “He was a Duke before he left.” 

“Everyone was broke after the war. Even House Riegan,” Sylvain points out. “Although, who knows what was waiting for Claude way out in Almyra, right Felix?” It is a light jab meant to distract Felix from any worries. Sylvain may not know the whole truth about Claude, but he has some ideas, as well as a certainty that Felix knows much more than all of them. “He could be filthy rich. He could be King!” 

Ingrid turns her attention to Felix, setting her glass between her legs so she can lean over and place a hand on his arm. “Sylvain is being stupid again,” she mourns, tone exaggeratedly grave. “It doesn’t matter what Claude is doing in Almyra. I’m sure he’ll write to you when he can.” 

“Or you could write him,” Sylvain suggests, grinning. “I could help you. Something like, _Dear Claude, I think of you late at night, while lying in bed, my hand_ —” 

“Don’t start,” Felix chokes, feeling his face flush. He busies himself with sipping his drink, trying to hide the color he knows is in his cheeks. 

“That’s enough, Sylvain.” Ingrid glares at him for only a moment, and then turns to Felix again. “He’s right, though. You should write him. Maybe he’s waiting for you to reach out.” 

That’s how Felix ends up sitting at his desk, late into the night, long after Sylvain and Ingrid have retired, trying to put his thoughts into words. 

His letter starts out more frustrated than he intends it to be. 

> _Claude,_
> 
> __
> 
> _Are you alive? If you are, consider picking up a pen and letting me know. It has been months and I am beginning to wonder if you remember your time here in Fódlan, or if you have put <strike>me</strike> it out of your mind. If that is the case, do us the decency of letting us know._

He can’t keep up the brusque tone for too long. Once his hand begins to write, words start to spill. He blames the alcohol and the sentimental feeling he always has after a night spent reminiscing with Sylvain and Ingrid. 

> _Everything is fine here, so don’t worry about that. Byleth is only marginally incompetent at being Queen, which is better than I expected. I will remain Duke long enough to see that she doesn’t mess everything up._

He provides some details on the state of rebuilding, even though Claude likely has more important matters with which to concern himself. He mentions a few more personal details about Ingrid’s knighthood and Sylvain’s lack of progress with Sreng. 

Then it’s time to close the letter. He hesitates, his hand above the paper, knowing exactly what he wants to say, but having trouble putting it into written word. Spelling it out feels weighted, uncomfortable. 

And yet — he doesn’t want to leave it unsaid. 

So he forces himself to close the letter with honesty: 

> _I miss you._

There’s more, too — the heaviness in his chest when he thinks about how he hasn’t heard from Claude, the flip-flopping of his stomach when he reaches beside his bed to find the sketch Claude gave him, the way he knows exactly how many days it’s been since Claude departed. 

But Claude knows him — he has always known how to read between the lines. 

So he ends it there with a simple: 

> _Yours,_
> 
> __
> 
> _Felix_

He gives the letter to Ingrid before she departs in the morning so she can send it from Garreg Mach. She tucks it carefully away and gives him a kiss on the cheek. He allows it and reflects on how far she’s come since their Academy days. 

“You’re a decent knight,” he tells her before she mounts her pegasus, remembering how she landed the final blow on Nemesis. He still has complicated feelings about knighthood, and he may not agree with the way Ingrid still holds it as her highest ideal, but he can give her that much. 

She deserves that much. 

“Felix,” Ingrid exhales, caught off guard. 

“Don’t make a big deal of it,” Felix hurries to warn her. “I was only making an observation.” 

“Of course,” she says, though her voice quavers. “Thank you.” 

As she takes off, Sylvain puts his hand on Felix’s shoulder. 

“We’ve really grown up, haven’t we?” he asks. 

“I suppose we have,” Felix replies. 

Sylvain leaves soon after Ingrid, and then life returns to its relative stability, with Felix keeping himself busy with work. He’s so busy, he almost doesn’t think of Claude. Except, of course, before bed at night, and during meals, and in between meetings, and whenever there is a lull in activity. 

But for the most part, he works. 

Three weeks after Ingrid leaves with his letter, he receives not one reply, but two. 

The first letter reads: 

> _Dearest Felix,_
> 
> __
> 
> __
> 
> _ I received your letter today and read it immediately. I dropped everything, ran to my rooms, locked away the world, and took my time savoring your handwriting. I then tucked your letter under my pillow, where it remains. At night I reach for it and think of you._

Even though this letter was sealed and no one is aware of its contents, Felix feels embarrassed — and annoyed because of his embarrassment. But he also feels warm in both cheek and heart. 

> _Are you blushing yet? I never told you this, but I’ve always enjoyed seeing you blush. You do it so easily. Did you know that? I wish I could see you getting angry at me right now. I’m picturing it and laughing. Don’t worry, you can yell at me when we see each other again. _

Felix isn’t angry, though. He feels even warmer — relieved by this evidence that Claude is alright, happy to be teased by him once more. His hands grip the letter tightly as he reads. 

__

> _Here’s the truth: I did write you. Twice, in fact. I don’t know what happened to those letters, but I have a few ideas. Nothing for you to worry over, but please know that not a moment goes by where I do not think of you. _
> 
> __
> 
> _I wish I could tell you everything that has happened here. I could use your insight on a few matters. I also could use you arguing with me. I often think to myself, “What would Felix say about this?” before I make a decision. I always picture your annoyed face. It helps. _
> 
> _Unfortunately, I can’t go into detail about what’s happening here. What I can do is include another letter that has all the information from my previous letters. I hope it makes up for the silence. _
> 
> _Take care, Felix. _
> 
> _Yours always, _
> 
> _Claude_

With a tight chest and a subtle stinging in his eyes, Felix opens and reads the other letter. 

It says simply: 

> _I love you._

Felix doesn’t write him back for two days, because it takes two days for him to feel like he can reread the letters without being inundated with emotion. 

When he finally responds, his letter is simple: 

> _Claude,_
> 
> __
> 
> _Stay focused and don’t get yourself killed. _
> 
> _I love you. _
> 
> _Felix_

* * *

Felix doesn’t abandon his title until nearly one year after the war ends. 

Once Faerghus begins to show promise once again — its buildings restored and economy beginning to stabilize — Felix visits Garreg Mach to request a recommendation for someone who will take over the reins. He tells Byleth he is willing to train a successor for a smooth transition as long as she recommends someone worthwhile. 

She recommends Leonie. 

At first, Felix is against this idea, assuming that Leonie has no sense of politics. He accepts her, however, because Byleth’s other potential candidates are even worse. He assumes he’ll be chained to his position for a long time trying to get Leonie up to speed. 

He’s proven wrong almost immediately. 

It turns out that Leonie learned a lot about Faerghus throughout her time with Dimitri, and though she has no practical experience in managing frustrated nobles or trying to rebuild war-torn lands, she is a quick study. Her blunt manner plays well off of Felix’s gruff way of handling situations. It becomes clear that she could be a good successor. 

Add in her willingness to spar and her cunning approach to fighting, and Felix soon finds himself enjoying her company. They become friends. 

He knows she’s officially ready to take over his position after he makes a visit to Garreg Mach and finds himself stranded for several days due to a nasty storm that prevents safe traveling. When he returns, fully expecting to clean up a mess of missed meetings and unresolved squabbles, Leonie cheerfully tells him she took care of all of it in his absence. 

That shows him it’s his time to leave. 

“Why?” she asks him as he packs the few belongings that will remain with him during his travels as a mercenary. “Not that I don’t want the job. You just seem suited for this.” 

There was a time when such a comment would make Felix bristle, but those days ended with the war. “I’ve finished what I came here to do,” he explains simply. He has done his part in restoring Faerghus; this is no longer a place for him. He is eager to return to fighting, because the part of himself that yearns for a challenge, that vies to improve, that aims to protect — it will not be quieted. Fighting is part of who he is and skill in politics will not quell his desire to swing his sword in a meaningful way. 

And fighting is needed both in Faerghus and beyond. There are rumors of the remaining Empire loyalists banding together with Those Who Slither in the Dark. Felix wants to clean up the remaining mess. He needs to wield his weapon now that he has finished wielding his tongue. 

So he and Leonie part ways. Felix leaves Fraldarius Manor one final time, penning a quick letter before shutting its doors. 

> _I have prepared for this moment for years, and yet leaving this manor for the last time, I feel_

He attempts to put it into words, but finds he cannot, scribbling away his attempts. In the end, he sends his letter just like that — unfinished, because Claude will understand without a completed sentence. 

And sure enough, he does. The next letter finds Felix in old Empire territory, a messenger locating him with surprising ease, considering that Felix should be on no one’s radar. 

> _You know, I actually felt the same when I left the Alliance. These places we build up only to leave behind certainly leave a mark on our hearts, don’t they?_

They do — and will again, because eventually, Claude will come for him, and Felix will leave all of Fódlan behind him. 

Until that time, Felix will fight. 

* * *

Claude prepared for his return to Almyra long before the day arrived. 

Throughout the long fight against the Empire, the subsequent threats from Those Who Slither in the Dark, and Nemesis’ entourage, Claude kept in close contact with Nader. They often exchanged correspondence, and when Claude had a rare opportunity to venture into Alliance territory alone, they would meet in person. Every report compiled by Nader brought him up to speed on the political happenings in Almyra — the rumors of his father’s pending decision to step down from the throne, the polarizing effect that the decision to support Fódlan in its war had on the populace, and the day-to-day issues requiring governance. 

When Claude finally returns, he’s prepared. 

Being prepared means being calm and collected when his appearance is met with a mixture of hostility and pride. Some Almyrans — more than Claude anticipated — greet him with respect for his role in Fódlan’s war and for proving to their enemies that the Almyrans are an unstoppable force. Others believe that Claude’s decision to include Almyrans in a war that had nothing to do with them was both foolhardy and contemptible. The latter half, it does not surprise Claude to learn, consists mainly of his familial connections, those who vie for the throne themselves. 

The reunion with his parents is therefore bitter-sweet — bitter, because the talk immediately turns to the many obstacles that Claude faces in trying to earn the throne, but sweet, because it is nice to see them after so long away. 

He initially spends his time reimmersing himself in Almyran culture — attending the festivals, reuniting with old acquaintances, and following all of the Almyran court decorum. Meanwhile, he subtly begins to gather support, working behind the scenes to establish contacts interested in his potential reign as king. 

When he isn’t making appearances or preparing for his bid for the throne, Claude enjoys the same hobbies as he always has: reading, researching, practicing with his bow, and thinking about a specific swordsman who waits for him beyond the border. He hangs Felix’s sword above his bed, a reminder that even if his situation grows difficult, as it inevitably will, he has the tried and true loyalty of the one person who matters. 

All in all, life is relatively peaceful and Claude almost feels happy to be back. 

Then his father formally declares that he will be turning over the throne to the most worthy successor, and everything changes. 

The initial months following that announcement are difficult, fraught with assassination attempts and slander of his character. His letters are intercepted, he learns when Felix writes him complaining of his lack of correspondence, in an effort to drag his reputation through the mud. His time away from Almyra is constantly cited as a reason he should not acquire the throne. Claude has to fight with everything he has, both figuratively and literally, to prove his strength and capabilities. 

Unlike before he left Almyra, however, this time he has support on his side. The Almyrans who fought with him in the war attest to his leadership. Younger members of his large family see the value of change and lend him their support. Nader remains faithfully at his side and, to Claude’s surprise, even his father takes up for him — only once, but once is far more than Claude ever would have expected. 

“If he was able to win Fodlan’s war with weaklings, think what he can do with strong Almyrans,” his father had bellowed during one particular heated argument about Claude’s suitability. 

Slowly, over the course of months, the tides began to change in Claude’s favor. He continues to win support and prove his worthiness until — 

He does it. He assumes the throne. And regardless of their personal feelings on the matter, even his enemies come to accept his position as King. 

When he stands before his people, newly crowned, ready to usher in a new age for Almyra — a time of peace and prosperity, of friendly relations with other nations — he feels one step closer to his dreams. 

He feels like a true King. 

He writes Felix that night, a long, detailed letter, pouring out information he had to withhold throughout his bid for the throne. It is, perhaps, the least collected Claude has even been, and his handwriting and emotional rambles let that show. But he’s excited, and he promises, more than once: 

> _I will come for you soon._

His work is just beginning. The first months of his reign will be under scrutiny and he will have to prove that he will set Almyra on the right course. 

But he is confident and ready for the challenge. 

He sleeps well his first night as King, beneath an old, loyal sword that watches over him throughout the night. 

* * *

Felix enjoys life as a mercenary. 

No matter how well he may play at politics, there is no denying that he is most himself when he is swinging his blade. Life on the move is solitary and often difficult, but also peaceful, and especially enjoyable when that peace is interspersed with the challenge of a formidable foe. There is nothing better than personal freedom, than the lure of a battle, than having his blade in his hand and a schedule all his own. 

At least, that’s what Felix reminds himself every morning as he greets the day from an inn window or a smoldering campfire. This is what he wanted. 

But as the days drag on and turn into weeks, as he continues to cut down bandit after bandit, Empire loyalist after Argarthan sympathizer, Felix realizes that he is as unfulfilled living life as a mercenary as he was living life as a Duke. He consists of two sides — sword and shield — and without the reconciliation of both, he will always feel restless. 

He reaches that conclusion one morning as he is leaving an inn, his swords in his belt, ready for another day of rounding up enemies who, in reality, don’t pose much of a challenge at all — when a messenger runs up to him, letter in hand. 

“Sir Fraldarius?” he asks. 

“How did you find me?” Felix’s whereabouts change every day; he should not be an easy man to locate. 

“I was told you’d be here, sir.” 

That answers nothing, but Felix accepts the letter and dismisses the messenger. He expects it to be from Claude, but it turns out that it’s from Hilda instead. 

> _Hello Felix,_
> 
> __
> 
> _You are a tough man to locate! Luckily I have some very dependable sources who knew exactly where you would be. Which is great, because I have a job for you. It pays well and you’ll get to put all your strong muscles to use, too! More importantly, it will save me a lot of work. _
> 
> _Why don’t you come visit the Alliance, fill your pockets, and help me out? Win-win, right? _
> 
> _We all miss you, you know. _
> 
> _See you soon, _
> 
> _Hilda_

Felix rolls his eyes as he stuffs the letter into his pocket and thinks about how some things never change. But he can’t help smiling a little, too, and by the end of the day, he’s en route to Alliance territory. 

Hilda’s job ends up being simple and has nothing to do with being a mercenary or swinging a sword. She merely wants his help rebuilding some of House Goneril’s defenses. The work ends up being extremely easy, as Hilda actively participates in the effort without even pretending to be lazy. 

Before long, they complete the job. 

“You’re a life-saver,” she tells him as they finish cleaning up. “Everyone’s so busy with rebuilding, it’s been hard finding anyone to help with this.” 

“You could have found someone else,” he argues, though his heart isn’t in it. Despite his strong preference for fighting over physical labor, he can’t say he hated the work — nor did he hate spending time with Hilda again. 

“No way, I’ve been trying for months. Speaking of which...” She grins at him, and Felix knows immediately that he’s about to be subjected to another request. “While you’re here, you might want to check in with Lorenz. I heard he was short on swords for some trip he’s making down into old Empire territory.” 

This kick-starts what ends up being a seemingly never-ending stream of tasks. Felix helps Lorenz, then visits Raphael and his sister, after which he’s called to assist Annette at the School of Sorcery. Then Sylvain hires him to clean up some bandits in his territory. Before long, Felix has helped out just about everyone in some form or fashion — sometimes with his sword, sometimes with his tongue, often with neither. 

“This has ‘scheme’ written all over it,” he complains to Marianne after helping her hang some birdhouses. 

She giggles. “You don’t look like you hate it.” 

“Because I don’t,” Felix admits. “But I can still be grumpy about it.” 

She laughs again, because she knows that his words are bluster; in truth, Felix doesn’t mind at all. 

His friends can only come up with so many excuses to keep him occupied, though, and after he finishes his cycle of assistance, he’s on the road fighting bandits and other threats to peace once again. 

Somehow, Claude’s letters always find him, and his expressive letter about finally becoming King of Almyra is no exception. Felix reads it several times, tries to picture Claude’s excitement as he wrote the words, hurrying to share the news. Each time he reads it, he feels a growing surge of — pride, he realizes. He feels proud of Claude’s mind, his drive, and most of all, his openness with Felix — his desire to be genuine during one of the most important moments of his life. 

When Felix writes him, he tries to allow his words to flow as naturally as Claude’s. 

> _I never doubted that you would succeed. That mind of yours seems incapable of accepting failure. _
> 
> __
> 
> _That’s a compliment. _
> 
> _Don’t make me wait too much longer. I am ready to be where I belong: at your side. _
> 
> _For you, and you alone, I am willing to bend my knee._

When Claude’s next letter reaches him, it is more composed but carries a tone of wonder: 

> _Your devotion still surprises me, even after all this time. How can I put into words how that makes me feel? I can’t, so you will have to wait until I come for you. Then I’ll show you instead._

Of course, Claude can’t resist a teasing postscript: 

> _By the way, we don’t actually bend the knee in Almyra. We’re a lot less stuffy here. But I wouldn’t mind a private demonstration of your Faerghus customs._

Eventually, Felix finds himself in Remire, a village still half-abandoned due to the tragedies that took place there and the subsequent burden of the war. Byleth wants to rebuild, so she pays Felix to keep it free of bandits while construction is in progress. He stays in a small, run-down hut throughout his tenure, and it’s there that he receives his final letter from Claude. 

He’s tending to a fire when the messenger arrives, hands him the letter, and then runs off before Felix can ask questions. The note is brief, merely a question written in Claude’s hand: 

> _Care for a nap?_

Felix looks around, trying to see if the solution to this riddle is nearby; but it isn’t, because there are no decent napping trees near his hut. For that, he has to go to the village outskirts. 

He snuffs out his fire and heads that way, quick in pace because he feels a thrill of anticipation — because he knows what’s waiting for him. 

And then he finds it: an ideal napping tree in full bloom, providing shade to the ground below, where a man lies with his eyes closed, at ease despite resting out in the open. 

“Sorry,” the man says, cracking open one eye. “This spot is already claimed.” 

“I wasn’t looking for a spot,” Felix replies breathlessly, his heart racing — and not just because he rushed to get here. 

“Oh?” the man asks, smiling. “What were you looking for?” 

“A foolish king,” Felix replies, dropping to his knees beside him. “Who doesn’t know how to do anything in a straightforward manner.” 

“Ah,” the man murmurs, sitting up, still so calm and collected. “Then perhaps you’ve found him.” 

“Enough of this playacting,” Felix says in a rush, his patience already worn through. He grabs him by the shirt and yanks him closer — close enough to feel the warmth of his body, the way his chest rumbles with a chuckle. 

“I missed you,” Claude says, looking into his eyes, caressing Felix’s cheek with one hand, letting the other rest over his heart, as though to feel it beating. 

There’s so much that Felix wants to say — all the emotions built up over two years surging within him — but when he opens his mouth, the sound he makes is frustrated and wordless, unable to communicate anything other than impatience as he finishes closing the distance between them and kisses Claude with every iota of love and passion he feels. 

Claude matches his fervor in returning the kiss and ends up half in his lap as he pushes Felix down to the ground. Their hands roam, confirming their tangibility, that this is real and not a dream, that this can last — it can be a kind of forever, where they never again have to stray far from each other, where Felix can remain like this, touched by Claude, held by Claude, cherished by Claude. 

Where he can cherish Claude in turn — run his fingers over the new scar revealed by the loosening of his surcoat, lining his collarbone like a badge of honor, while promising that no one will get that close to him again now that he is back at his side. Where he can show him that the years between them and the new royal burden on Claude’s shoulders means nothing, a drop in a bucket compared to what they have behind them, and what they will build going forward. 

It feels, Felix thinks as he holds tight to Claude and kisses him over and over again, like he is home. 

Those first hours pass by in a blur of emotional joy. They speak very little beyond whispered confessions and murmured adorations, allowing their bodies to say what cannot be so easily translated to speech. Somehow, they make it back to Felix’s hut, breaking apart only long enough to clear a space — 

And they remember each other all night long, until a new dawn arrives once again. 

* * *

“I have a proposition for you,” Claude says later that morning, Felix’s head pillowed by his chest, their fingers intertwined. 

“Hmm?” Felix intones, his eyes closed, body relaxed. 

“How would you like to join my court?” Claude’s free hand runs through his hair, far longer than it was during the war. “I have an opening for a foreign advisor. We’re getting ready to start peace talks and we can use someone familiar with Fódlan’s new regime.” 

Felix opens his eyes and tilts his head to look up at Claude, a hint of incredulity in his expression. “Are you trying to recruit me?” 

Claude smiles, bright and open. “I guess I am. Felix, will you join my court?” 

“Fine.” Felix feigns a grumble, but his smile betrays him. “You need someone to keep you in line.” 

“Exactly,” Claude agrees, freeing his hands so he can wrap his arms around Felix. “And don’t worry, I had a gardener get rid of those Almyran weeds your body hates so much.” 

There’s a pause, during which Felix frowns and tries to understand. “What are you talking about?” he finally asks. 

Claude laughs and tells him a story about a little conversation he and Felix had in the infirmary many years ago. 

* * *

Later, Claude helps him pack, fondly tucking away the sketch that Felix hung in the hut, the letters he kept at his bedside. Felix’s belongings are sparse, so it takes them no time at all to prepare. They are nearly done when Claude finds, among Felix’s swords, a fierce-looking wooden rabbit. 

“What’s this?” he asks innocently, picking it up. 

Felix gives him a flat look. “You think I haven’t figured it out?” 

He nearly threw it away after Garreg Mach fell, a symbol of so many things he needed to leave behind, a manifestation of all his conflicted feelings. At the last minute, he changed his mind — berating himself for his weakness but unable to let it go, especially once he realized, after some clear-headed thinking, who it was from. 

“Figured out what?” Claude asks, stepping closer, rabbit held loosely in hand. 

Felix answers, “I’m the rabbit.” 

In the story Claude once told him, the rabbit outsmarts the wyvern. Here, however, there is no predator or prey; there is no need for mind games. 

There is only this: the rabbit kissing his wyvern, the wyvern holding his rabbit close. 

* * *

Even later — beyond the days it takes to travel, the weeks it takes for Felix to settle in Almyra and prove his strength, the months it takes for him to be fully accepted — Claude stands among his court of advisors and attendants. Today, they will discuss the upcoming visit to Fódlan to meet with its Queen in what will hopefully be the first of many future visits as they broker peace. 

They cannot start until all are in attendance, and missing is the King’s foreign advisor, arguably the most important attendee for the topic at hand. 

“_Where is he?_” one of Claude’s generals demands. 

Felix walks in at that moment, dressed in the customary Almyran silk attire befitting his station — or it would be befitting, were it not torn in several places, smeared with blood, and hanging off his shoulders in a way that makes it seem that it was yanked past recovery. Felix’s hair is down, and as he moves to take his seat at Claude’s right hand, he quickly ties it up, revealing a bruising cheek and a cut along his jaw. 

“_Apologies,_” Felix says in accented Almyran. “_I had a fight to finish._” 

The general grunts his acceptance of the excuse, and all of them look upon Felix with respect — as they usually do when Felix emerges victorious from a fight, only to seamlessly transition to his role in court. 

This life suits him. 

This life suits Claude, too. 

All eyes turn to him at the head of the table, ready to listen to his command, prepared to march forward at his word. Everyone here believes in his dreams, and everyone is willing to work toward making them a reality. First, peace with Fódlan, and then they will go beyond — to Sreng, which is finally receiving Sylvain as a guest rather than an enemy, and Duscur, where Dedue has been working tirelessly to rebuild. 

While they wait for him to speak, Claude looks at each and every one of them, marveling at how far he has come. He then turns his attention to the man who was first to swear his service — the first to offer his acceptance and love — and thinks, _This is what it feels like to belong._

He speaks, and the meeting begins. 

After, Claude and Felix have their usual debriefing session. As he always does, Felix challenges a few of his decisions. 

These days, however, their talks always end the same way: the two of them leaving the meeting room hand-in-hand to retire to their shared chambers, guiding each other to the bed that sits under an old sword, next to a table where a wooden rabbit rests, beside a framed sketch of two younger men: one asleep, the other keeping him upright, both of them appearing at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Epilogue
> 
> I hope all of you are staying safe during these uncertain and scary times - please take care!


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

It would surprise _everyone_ to know that Hilda Valentine Goneril is now a morning person. As in, she is usually fully dressed and ready to get to work by the time the sky is colored by the sun, even before she drinks her morning tea. She blames her early rising on habits formed during the war, but if she’s honest, she has to admit that maybe, just maybe, deep down inside, she’s always liked rising early — almost as much as she likes complaining about rising early. 

This morning begins bright and early as usual, though she is a little surprised that she is the one seeking out her charges, instead of the other way around. As far as she remembers, Felix was always up before the sun rose, and Claude was always busy with everything _except_ sleeping. They should be out and about by now. 

But when she knocks on the door to the Goneril guest chambers, the voice that calls for her to enter sounds more sleepy than alert. And when she opens the door, she finds that both Claude and Felix are still dressed in their night attire, not at all ready for the day ahead. Thankfully, neither of them are still asleep, though they both sit upon the bed, Claude positioned behind Felix, braiding his long hair. 

“You’re already dressed,” Claude observes as Hilda puts her hand on her hip. 

“We leave in half an hour,” she points out. 

“Are you doubting my ability to roll out of bed, throw on some clothes, and come out looking as regal as ever?” Claude asks with a broad smile. 

“Your ability?” Hilda echoes. “No. But Felix? Doesn’t he have a whole beauty routine?” It’s a tease, but only a small one. Hilda had the pleasure of doing Felix’s hair twice in the past. With the way he used to style it coupled with his manner of dress, she’s convinced that Felix is prone to preening. 

She anticipates a glare or at least a huff of annoyance, but to her surprise, Felix laughs. The sound is — well, she isn’t going to call it _magical_, but it’s certainly something, with as free as it sounds. 

“I decided to skip it this morning,” Felix replies, and _saints_, he’s even joking freely. Long ago, Hilda believed that Almyra could only produce hardened warriors. She now knows it also produces kings who wear goofy grins and advisors who make jokes while getting their hair braided. 

“Hey, Hilda,” Claude says, motioning her over before she can respond to Felix’s quip. “Check this out.” 

She steps closer to look at the object he holds up, and _oh_. She has to pause before speaking because a small lump forms in her throat when she sees what it is. “You kept it,” she acknowledges, voice quavering with emotion. She looks at Felix, who regards her with serious amber eyes. 

They soften immediately, even though Felix tries to scowl when he replies, “Of course I did.” 

Claude lowers his hand so he can fasten the ends of Felix’s hair with the accessory: a hair tie she made years ago, during the war, and which she specially adorned with a small sword. 

“You’ve always been a softie,” Hilda chides, deciding that if Felix can laugh and joke so openly, he can also accept hugs openly. She throws her arms around him. 

He hugs her back without hesitation. 

* * *

These days, Hilda spends less time on official Goneril business and more time on the founding of Fódlan’s very first artisan academy, which is set to open in a few short moons. She is usually far too busy to run around the country like she did when she was under the care of the professor. But when her brother asked if she would escort the King of Almyra to Garreg Mach, she readily cleared her schedule. 

On paper, this is an act of trust. Lord Holst offering his beloved sister is a gesture of good faith, a way of showing the Almyrans that he has no concerns with their presence on his territory and beyond. In actuality, it’s an opportunity for Hilda to catch up with Claude. Though they remain in contact via letters, it’s been years since their last face-to-face conversation. She fully intends on grilling Claude about his personal life, which he’s _still_ tight-lipped about, after all these years. 

The questions that she has ready include:

  * _When’s the wedding? Because you know I’m going to help you plan it and I need to make room in my schedule._
  * _Are you trying to grow out a full beard? Not that you wouldn't absolutely rock it, but isn't it way too hot for that in Almyra?_
  * _How did Felix get such a tan? I was sure he’d burn bright red under the Almyran sun._

Unfortunately, she gets to ask none of them, because once they are finally ready to head to Garreg Mach, she’s distracted by the fact that Felix whispers lovingly to a wyvern, which he then mounts and guides into the air. 

“That’s new,” she observes as she hoists herself onto her wyvern’s saddle. 

“He found her during a hunt.” Claude mounts his wyvern, keeping close so he and Hilda can talk as they take to the sky. “Abandoned, no mother in sight, so he took her in and raised her.” 

“No way.” It isn’t the raising of an animal that she finds hard to believe; she just figured Felix was more of a cat person. In fact, she distinctly remembers him talking about cats during tea time back at the Academy. Wyverns are a _much_ bigger handful, she knows from experience. 

“He hand fed her, slept in the stables with her, the whole deal.” Claude looks proud as he shares this story, smiling while he watches Felix flying up ahead. 

Hilda raises her eyebrows, impressed. “He really has gone soft.” 

Claude laughs, sounding more fond than amused. “Know what he named her?” 

“What?” 

He says the Almyran name, which Hilda repeats twice in an effort to pronounce it correctly. “It translates to ‘wanted one,’” he explains. 

“That’s...wow.” There’s more to this story, she’s certain of it, and she’s very compelled to ask, but then Claude is looking at Felix again, so clearly in love, and — well, let them have their romantic secrets. They deserve it. 

“Enough about that,” she decides out loud. “I’ll get everything I want from him later. For now, I want to hear about _you_. What’s it like being a King?” 

“It’s…” he trails off with a hefty sigh that almost convinces Hilda that he’s unhappy in his position. Then he grins. “Pretty great, actually.” 

“Tell me _everything_.” 

And he does, all the way to Garreg Mach. 

* * *

“Is it just me,” Sylvain whispers as Claude is announced as the King of Almyra to Byleth, led into the throne room by Hilda, with Felix walking in step on his right, “or does Claude seem different?” 

“Shhh!” Ingrid, dressed in her full knight’s armor and decorated with honors and awards, gives him a withering look that doesn’t seem knightly at all. 

Sylvain happily ignores her, watching as Claude respectfully bows before Byleth. “Maybe it’s the way he’s carrying himself?” he asks. 

“Sylvain,” Ingrid hisses as Byleth bows back. There’s a brief pause and then the two leaders toss royal manners aside and embrace. 

“Nah, it’s more than that,” Sylvain continues, his attention now on Felix, who is also different in a lot of ways. Those differences are less striking, however, given that Sylvain has kept in close touch with Felix over the years, even managing to visit with him a couple of times. He’s seen the way Felix has blossomed while living in Almyra, has heard him speak openly about his enjoyment of the culture and his respect for Claude. 

Sylvain has kept in touch with Claude, too, but their relationship is business first, friendship second. Claude has always been always kind and encouraging in his correspondence, believing in Sylvain’s ability to foster friendship with Sreng even when it seemed hopeless, but he remained unforthcoming about himself. 

Which is why this is nagging at Sylvain, when he should be focused on the proceedings. He watches as Claude steps next to Byleth as an equal. Felix walks off to the side, but his eyes never leave Claude — and that, at least, is something that has not changed over the years. 

Next to enter is the chief chosen to represent Sreng — a large and fearsome woman with dark hair and icy eyes by the name of Cynbel, who Sylvain almost contemplated marrying in an effort to foster friendly relationships. Almost, because before he could even put the idea on the table, Cynbel and Byleth began to _look_ at each other in a way that told him that a political union was going to take place at a much higher level than his own. 

Dressed in furs acquired through skillful hunting, Cynbel towers above Byleth as she stops before her to offer her hand. Following Sreng's customary gesture of greeting, they clasp each other's arms and speak a Srengian phase. They continue to keep it professional when they follow with a friendly hug, but Sylvain is watching Claude while they embrace. He can tell by the way Claude raises his eyebrows that he sees it, too: Cynbel and Byleth are as smitten as Claude and Felix. 

“That’s what it is,” Sylvain whispers to Ingrid, who is trying to ignore him. “Look at him. His face — you can tell what he’s thinking.” After years of always hiding behind a carefully constructed smile, Claude now looks genuine — easy to read and openly feeling. 

Sylvain has no doubt that Claude could plaster a smile on his face and cover it up if he truly wanted, but it’s clear that he feels it isn’t necessary to do so. _That_ is what’s so different about him. 

And when Claude turns his attention to Felix, who matches Claude’s delighted expression with an openly happy one of his own, it’s obvious why. 

“I guess I have no choice but to believe in love now,” Sylvain murmurs. 

Ingrid elbows him into silence. 

Last to enter is Dedue, the representative of Duscur, which is finally starting to prosper after years of struggling to rebuild. Mercedes walks at his side as his current right-hand in Duscur's reconstruction efforts. She recently started a school there, about which she wrote to Sylvain at length, inviting him to vacation in Duscur at some point in the near future. He plans on taking her up on that as soon as these peace treaties are finalized. 

More hugs, and then the four leaders address the diverse crowd around them. There are people from all four countries in attendance, ready to bear witness to the historical signing of a four-nation peace treaty. 

It’s a huge step, but it’s only the beginning. After his vacation in Duscur, Sylvain will visit Brigid and then, hopefully, he’ll take a trip to Dagda. More peace, more open borders — these dreams seem attainable now, even if they will take time and effort. 

But for now, it’s the four nations and their representatives that are the focus of this occasion. Sylvain remains quiet as each of them make a speech in their respective languages, with translators conveying the messages in turn. 

When that’s over, they take turns signing a lengthy treaty. 

And just like that, peace is formally implemented, trade routes are established, and the world has become a little more open. 

From where he stands in front of an applauding audience, Claude winks at Sylvain. 

Sylvain winks back. 

* * *

A feast follows the signing of the treaty. At a large table adorned with foods from all four nations sit the leaders and their most important staff: Byleth and Ingrid sit next to Dedue and Mercedes, across from Claude and Felix. Cynbel, however, approaches the table alone, eyes on Sylvain as she sits beside Claude. 

“You will sit with me, Gautier,” she tells him, inclining her head toward the empty seat beside hers. “This peace is largely because of you.” 

“Aw, I hardly did anything,” he protests lightly, though he takes the seat, grinning at Cynbel and then turning to flash that same grin across the table to Byleth. 

“Listen to him,” Cynbel says, turning to Claude. “Hounds my people for months, sending so many gifts our trash overflows with them, and yet says he did nothing.” 

“Annoying people is Sylvain’s best quality,” Ingrid supplies from Byleth’s side, though she smiles at him proudly as she says it, with none of her earlier chiding. 

“We didn’t get any gifts in the name of peace,” Claude complains. “I feel left out.” 

“We gave you Felix,” Byleth deadpans. 

Felix chokes on his drink, taken by a fit of coughing. Claude pats his back, humming thoughtfully. “So you did.” 

Even after Felix catches his breath, Claude keeps his hand on his back, rubbing small circles. Sylvain watches Felix pretend to ignore him, eating his meal as though Claude isn’t invading his space in front of a formal audience, but every once in a while, Felix looks at Claude, the adoration apparent in his expression. 

Sylvain manages to catch Ingrid’s attention and discretely points in their direction, grinning as though to say, _Look at Felix being so helplessly in love._

Ingrid gives him a glare that he translates to mean, _Mind your own business in front of formal company,_ but he notices that she starts to pay closer attention, too. 

* * *

That night, everyone else arrives. With special permission from Byleth, they all gather in the Golden Deer classroom as they had twice before, in earlier years. They tote blankets and pillows and set up snacks. 

Leonie brings news of Faerghus, happily sharing with Felix all the progress that has been made in recent years. Lysithea excitedly discusses advances in crest research, and for the first time, looks upon the future promisingly. Raphael discusses plans to open an inn with his sister and invites Marianne to visit his bird feeders. Annette talks about teaching at the School of Sorcery. Lorenz mentions his plans to work with Byleth on policies that will hopefully aid peace with other nations, asking Ingrid for her professional opinion on some of his ideas. Hilda mentions Marianne’s role in helping to establish her academy, to Marianne’s happy embarrassment, then formally invites everyone to take a class. 

Mercedes and Dedue describe the revitalization of Duscur’s flower fields. Claude and Felix invite everyone to Almyra. Sylvain tells everyone they have to talk to Cynbel if they want to see Sreng, but he has a feeling that won’t be necessary for much longer. 

They talk all night and make plans to visit each other in the near future. 

In the morning, Ignatz reveals a painting Claude secretly commissioned: all of the former Golden Deer standing outside the gates of Garreg Mach, a new dawn rising in the skies above them. 

* * *

All important peace treaties are followed with grand parties. At least, that’s Claude’s logic, and that’s exactly why over the next evening, Garreg Mach becomes a huge hub of activity, people mingling wherever they can — eating in the dining hall, admiring the cathedral, dancing wherever music plays. Cultural exchanges take place, traditional dances are demonstrated, and even languages are passed from person to person. As Claude walks through the crowds, he feels proud of everyone in attendance. It feels like a dream realized; everything he so desperately wanted as a child has finally come to fruition. 

The festivities are missing only one person — someone who has conveniently slipped away while Claude was occupied with answering questions about Almyra and his governance. 

He has a hunch on where he will find him: beyond the walls, under a specific tree, lying down and looking at the sky above. 

“Feeling nostalgic?” he asks as he sits beside Felix. Felix shifts and rests his head in Claude’s lap. Claude removes his hair tie, pocketing it so he can run his fingers through Felix’s hair. 

Felix makes a sound that is probably supposed to mean _yes_, but instead sounds more like a moan of enjoyment as Claude gently loosens his braid. 

“I thought so,” Claude murmurs, looking down at Felix, whose eyes flutter shut. 

“Not for this place,” Felix states without opening his eyes. 

“For Almyra? Already?” Claude asks with amusement. “We haven’t been gone that long.” 

“It’s been long enough,” Felix replies, tone relaxed. “We’re missing the tournament.” 

“There’s a tournament every week," Claude chuckles. “You can fight in the next one.” 

Felix opens his eyes, tilting his head to look up at him. “You don’t miss it?” 

“I do,” Claude answers. “But Fódlan feels like home, too, in a way. Now especially.” 

Felix makes a face at that, somewhere between annoyed and reluctantly fond. “I can’t say I feel the same.” 

“You’re only upset that you don’t get to fight tonight,” Claude suggests. “I bet if you go take a look at the training grounds you’ll feel as sappy as I do about this place.” 

“I don’t want to look at the training grounds,” Felix argues. “But there is one place I’d be willing to go.” 

“Where?” 

Felix rises and reaches a hand to help Claude up. Claude takes it, standing at his bidding, and they remain hand in hand as they walk back into the bustle of Garreg Mach, slipping past guards, beyond the common grounds and into a building, then up sets of stairs that eventually lead to their destination: the Star Terrace. 

“Now I feel nostalgic for this place,” Felix allows, sitting on the stone and pulling Claude down with him. Claude shifts close; they snuggle against each other. 

“I remember when you didn’t care much for the sky,” Claude muses. “Now you can’t get enough of it.” 

“I remember when I couldn’t get you to admit anything without giving you something in return,” Felix counters. “Now I can’t get you to stop telling me things.” He tries to resist the smile that breaks out across his face as he speaks, but fails to do so. 

“I remember when you would hardly smile,” Claude says, brushing a thumb across Felix’s lips. 

“I remember when you would only smile,” Felix replies, “no matter how you felt.” 

“We’re getting old, aren’t we?” Claude asks wistfully, tilting Felix’s face toward his so he can kiss him, lightly, before pulling back to speak again. “No more games, no more secrets.” 

Felix huffs with feigned annoyance. “No more games? What was that the night before we left?” 

“Hmm?” Claude tries to distract Felix by nuzzling into his neck. 

Felix won’t be deterred. “I know you shot that arrow into our room.” 

Claude smiles against the skin of Felix’s neck, then nips him, which elicits a small gasp but doesn’t stop Felix’s rant. 

“I ran around the entire grounds looking for an intruder. I alerted the guard, I nearly shut the palace down —” 

“And you liked it,” Claude interrupts. “You need a distraction like that, sometimes. To keep you on your toes.” 

Felix sighs, finally relaxing beneath Claude’s touch, one hand coming to rest at the base of Claude's neck, the other clutching the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer. “And you need to scheme or you’ll grow restless, which isn't good for anyone.” 

“Exactly.” Claude’s hands roam now, across Felix’s chest, downward to dip under the hem of his shirt. He grazes his lips up along Felix’s neck again, then presses slow kisses over his jawline. “And you had fun,” he whispers into his ear. “I could tell, because when you rushed into our room after you realized what was going on, you were so eager to get me —” 

“Enough,” Felix mutters. Claude pulls back so he can try to make out the color he knows fills Felix’s cheeks. Even after all this time, he still blushes so easily — and Claude has always loved that about him. 

“You’re a handful,” Felix adds. 

“You love it.” Claude grins at him. “You’d be bored otherwise. Just like I’d be bored without your constant grumbling.” 

“I hardly grumble anymore,” Felix grumbles. 

“Come here.” He pulls Felix close again, and they kiss slowly, gently, with all the care and affection they feel for each other, all the acceptance and devotion, the loyalty and love that has grown stronger over the years. They kiss beneath the night sky in a place where something began years ago, and when they pull apart to look up at the stars, Felix speaks, voice low. 

“You’re right. This does feel like home.” 

* * *

When the history books write about the age of peace, many of the big players are mere footnotes in the story. Historians do not realize the role that Sylvain played in achieving peace with Sreng, nor do they recognize how important Fódlan’s first artisan academy was in facilitating cultural exchange. Writers seem to forget that the King of Almyra had a Fódlan advisor at his side throughout his reign. They neglect to mention Dedue played a monumental role in restoring Duscur. Most people get reduced to mere blurbs, statements about marriages or lack thereof, and a byline about achievements if they’re lucky. 

But during the age of peace, when people were able to cross borders without concern, when trade flowed freely and schools included languages and cultures in their curriculums, those responsible were not concerned with their legacies. They were only concerned with continuing to foster understanding, to extend their hands in friendship to more countries, and to make the world a better place. 

It would be disingenuous to say that everyone lived happily ever after, because _ever after_ can only last for so long and happiness is not a constant state. 

But this much is true: they were happy most of the time, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end! Thank you so, so much for reading - for sticking with me over these months and encouraging me by subscribing, leaving kudos, reccing this fic to others, and/or commenting. This feels like my magnum opus, and I cannot tell you how amazing it has been to have readers follow it along. I never expected to have much readership, given the rarity of this pairing, so I have been in a constant state of appreciation and joy over all the support this fic has received. 
> 
> If you want to keep tabs on my future fics, I'm [@undeadlifting](https://twitter.com/undeadlifting) on Twitter. Otherwise, thank you once again and I wish all of you the best <3


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